


A Question of Existence

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Chronic Pain, Family Bonding, Gen, Mild Blood, POV Multiple, The Sparda Men don't know how emotions work, Universe Altered- I bring back V post game, but they gon learn today So Help Me God, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 04:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 61,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20868134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: In a no-name alley, in a no-name town, V returns to the world naked and confused.





	1. Wake up V, we have traumas to overcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Prior to a month ago I had no idea what a DMC was then a random V floated across my tl and here we are. A month later and I know more about DMC than I thought I ever would and latched onto V like a rabid raccoon with a popsicle. This is the start of a very ellaborate scheme to get these idiot boys the emotional closure and family bonding they deserve. Even Vergil.

When all’s said and done, he dies as he is born. He leaves behind no legacy and births no change, and that is as it was written to be. He, him, _V_, a left-over humanity meant for nothing more than nonexistence.

…except…except this world can never be predicted and should never be dismissed. There are men who walk with monsters and monsters who walk as men. There are demons and no angels to match them, devils and the hunters who vex them, and somewhere, there must be Gods too. Gods who sit by the way and spend their days laughing at the madness they hath wrought upon this world.

Because, V does not die when Vergil becomes once more.

He fades, to numb nothingness and familiar dark. He loses time, forgets the world, and retreats to wherever he existed before. V stops being a person, a…construct, but he doesn’t die. Perhaps, as he was never born he can never die, but he _can_ slip away and never expect to return.

Except that he _does_.

Shuddering, shivering, gasping, he exists once more. Eyes wide, unseeing, as he comes into the world again.

There is pain, blood-deep and gnawing on his new bones. It rakes claws through his paper-thin skin and stretches his fresh muscles taut, but this pain is not new. It’s as familiar as the air he sucks into his new lungs, as the stars that poke through the haze across his eyes. A whole sky full of stars welcomes him back into the world, twinkling elegantly and dancing their celestial waltz.

There’s rough concrete under his back, under his bare ass, and something drying stiff on his chest, but V can’t care about that right now. He can barely keep himself breathing and seeing; it’s a chore to even blink but one he must accomplish.

Should he be grateful for his second coming? A second chance to live a little longer, a little more selfishly? He’s not sure. And, if the world is going to drag him back into it, he would appreciate some clothes to cover himself. The night air is cold and though he can’t feel the tearing-ripping-dragging of a body made to fall apart, he’s still rather frail.

He would also appreciate his familiars. Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare are not with him, and he can’t feel them no matter how carefully he searches. There’s nothing on the edge of his mind, nothing pricking at his thoughts, or even tugging at his skin. They are, each of them, a missing piece clamouring for his attention, forcing him to acknowledge their loss, and that aches far worse than his frail body ever has.

They haven’t been taken from him temporarily this time, they’re _gone_, and he knows they will probably never come back.

Not like him.

“And his dark secret love, does thy life destroy,” he murmurs, voice rough, unused.

They threw themselves at Dante, forced him to slay them, to protect Vergil. And himself? Griffon would have suggested it, but they all knew their own origins, all three would have decided together. At least, well…they had each other in their last moments and V supposes that will be his comfort.

Small comfort, frail and shivering just like himself.

A dread wind blows down the…alley, yes alley, and his bare body shudders with it. Papers get whipped against the walls and a cloud rolls across the stars, taking them away, and V can read the signs. Mourning can be had later, if it’s had at all, but for now, he gets up on shaking hands and knees, and stops.

His body is weak, holding together better than it did towards the end, but that’s a poor comparison. There’s nausea and vertigo at war between his head and stomach, both determined to send him back to the filthy ground, but he pushes through. Forces both to the side and gets to his feet with the help of the alley wall.

A clammy sweat breaks across the back of his neck and his vision swims, but he’s standing, and that’s enough. He can make his way from here, pinch clothes from a washing line, and figure the world out. He doesn’t know what foul thing brought him back, but he’ll deal with it as it comes, or chase it if he must.

After getting his bearings perhaps. V doesn’t think he could chase an ant at present, but if the first time proves the standard, his strength will come. So, he walks.

He hobbles along the alley, using the wall, and testing his body once more. Pain was a constant before, a dull ache settled in his joints, his legs. Sometimes he could get by with a twinge, an annoyance instead of a crippling blow; he could walk and run and fight. Other times, his knee would buckle, and he would limp like a lame thing; use his cane to help himself along instead for exorcisms.

Now, in this new-old body, the pain is everywhere but fading at a decent pace. The nausea clears when he reaches the mouth of the alley and the headache calms as he wanders out onto an empty street. He decides to think about his still lame leg at a later point, despite a pointed limp, and takes in his surroundings.

Not Red Grave, as far as he can see, and not anywhere else that he recognises. The dark buildings aren’t residential, no one’s home, so there’s no one to see a naked, white-haired man limp his way down the street. And, there’s no one to see him stop outside a glass storefront and consider the mannequins propped inside.

The clothes on them are clearly high quality and the glass is clearly not. Finding something heavy enough to break it—_half a brick laying in the road_—is easy and smashing the storefront is easier still. No alarm shatters the quiet of the night and no person miraculously appears to stop him, so V considers this a gift from some higher power.

And yes, he does feel a bit guilty breaking into the store, but only a bit. They have racks and racks of overpriced clothes; women’s blouses that feel paper thin, plain shirts that cost hundreds for no reason. Griffon would say this was payback for the robbery these snobs committed daily, and V smiles, despite the sharp pain such thoughts bring.

He takes his time looking for something, not like the frenzied robbery of his first life. He has choices now, _options_. There are blouses and dress shirts and jerseys and sweaters, there are jeans and shorts and skirts and dresses, and so many accessories. V’s not sure what he even likes, he never thought about it before, but he tries on more than he probably should.

The dressing rooms are in the back with their privacy curtains and floor-length mirrors, but he pulls on and strips off outfits wherever he pleases. He fumbles into whatever catches his eye and parades himself in front of a mirror, squinting in the dark of the store. There’s only the muted yellow of a streetlight spilling through the broken front to see by but it’s enough.

And, in the end, it doesn’t much matter because black isn’t a hard colour to match. In the end, Griffon would laugh at him, because all these choices, so many options, and V still ends up in black leather and silver. This time the coat isn’t sleeveless, and he does pair it with a soft undershirt, but he recreates his old outfit nearly exactly. And Griffon would never let him live that down.

Memory is bitter bile on his tongue as he climbs back out of the store, glass crunching under his new sandals. The street is still deserted, despite all the time he took playing dress-up in the dark, and the wind picks up again, tousling his hair and dragging at his clothes, but he stays warm. Cool fingers don’t slide through open lacing and caress ink covered skin, and he should be thankful for that.

Should being quite the important word. He should be thankful he’s warm now, and he should be thankful for existing once more. He should be thankful he didn’t wake in another dilapidated house with his demonic counterpart leering over him. And he should be thankful his body is holding strong under him, glad for the respite from taxing familiars.

Oh, so much should, and all of it pointless.

Standing on the pavement won’t gain him answers though, only more bitterness, so V picks a direction and walks. Past the dark buildings that tower and glower, shoulders hunched and lips tight. Something has happened, obviously, but he can’t tell what.

He can remember himself this time, and Vergil, and Nero. There are no spots in his memory, no thing missing from his mind that he must chase down to recall. There’s also no inciting incident. Nothing Vergil could have been doing that would warrant his return.

Vergil is working with his brother now, keeping bills paid and Dante in something resembling a successful business. Nero still heads out with his mobile branch and the women still drop in for assignments whenever they feel like it. There are scuffles every so often, sibling squabbles and parental annoyances, but nothing to force Vergil to an unmaking.

As far as V can gather, life is going _fine_ for Vergil. So why is he back?

All his wondering wandering takes him out of the business area to something more residential, or at least environmental, and V finds himself standing in grass. He looks up and there are trees, venerable oaks and aromatic cedar, swaying gently in the breeze. A park perhaps?

There’s no reason to stop, and he should keep going until he comes to a sign of some sort, but he doesn’t. He lets his feet lead him, off into the grass and between the trees, squinting in the dark until his eyes adjust enough to make out the blurred shapes of things. There are more trees further in, copses of them, and benches dotted along a distinct path.

He could sit at any one but he keeps going, until he can’t see the buildings behind him unless he looks for their silhouettes against the rapidly clouding over sky. He walks—_limps_—til the path starts to curve, looping back on itself, then leaves it entirely to find something else.

A pond, as it turns out; something else is a quiet pond hidden away in a sea of green. It’s an inky stillness in the night, catching stray pieces of light and dragging them down into its depths. V wonders how deep it is as he sits on a dew-covered bench. In the day the pond is probably an attraction, a reason to visit the park; a place to feed ducks and splash in the shallows.

During the night however, it is something quite…otherworldly. There’s a presence to this place, to the water standing near stagnant. There are no reflections off the surface, no reason to think anything might be there, except for the benches set around it. V didn’t see it until he was nearly in it, and he doesn’t doubt other creatures weren’t so lucky.

Perhaps that’s why the distinct drag of metal on the paving stone pathway and crunch of grass that follows soon after do not startle him. Why should he expect anything simple in such a place?

A tiny body dragging a moonlight cane certainly isn’t simple, and neither is the sharp pang in his chest. As he leans down, palm open to the little shadow. As he smiles, shaky and half-unsure, and reaches for a cane that is nearly familiar.

The cat steps delicately onto his palm, purring and rubbing her face against his fingers, and V holds her gently, carefully. She’s barely bigger than a baby; her legs are stubby and her face is round with infancy, but this is her. His Shadow rests comfortably in his cupped hand, blinking her still-red eyes up at him, and flashing still-wicked fangs as she yawns.

“Tyger Tyger burning bright, in the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye, dare frame thy fearful symmetry?” he quotes for her, blinking slow as she bats his thumb. He settles her in his lap, covers her with a hand to keep the chill away.

Where she came from, he cannot say, and his gratitude will remain as wordless lest something snatch her away. She is smaller this second time. His Shadow is a hazy, hellish kitten instead of a prowling, demonic beast, but she settles easier in his lap now. She may grow, if they get the chance, if he can feed her and keep her safe from the world.

He intends to do just that and opens his mouth to ask for her contract again when she gives it instead. Tiny slivers of cold grab at him, claw at his flesh as gently as such things can, and seep into his blood once more. His breath comes as a puff of smoke, of cold, and his heart slows til the world slows with it.

Shadow blinks up at him, fierce red eyes and black fury. She is here, she’s alive, and she’ll keep him alive too. Despite her small form, despite the nature of what they are. She wants him, and she will keep him.

“Well met, fierce Tyger,” he croaks, stroking her head and staring at nothing.

He can hear her again, in his mind, their connection exists once more though different. Her thoughts are a jumble of flittering things, stumbling and falling apart without articulation. There’s oxymoronic current of energy running through her mind that tempers off into infant exhaustion.

She travelled a distance to find him, dragging the cane she found next to her new body, and she is tired now but excited too. She’s glad to be with him again, sad that he left before, confused over existing once more; her thoughts and emotions are a whirlwind, but they are mutual.

Together they soothe each other’s run away feelings, their simple presence enough to settle the bubbling discomfort in their stomachs. Though, some of that may be hunger, gnawing and growling to be sated. V doesn’t have any money, or any idea where he is, but he managed before and he will again. There must be something open, middle of the night or not, but he doesn’t go looking for it.

He stays sitting in the dark, with his Shadow, gathering his thoughts and waiting for what, he isn’t sure. The clouds that covered the stars have taken over the whole sky now, blotting out the black expanse and reflecting the glow of light pollution back down. The lake shows black in the new murky grey of the world, a sinkhole for the eye, and he casts his away.

The rest of the park is easier to see, the flowering shrubs next to the towering trees. All of them tremble in the breeze that rips through and their scents release in a pungent wave. Shadow sneezes and he covers his nose, glancing away to a jungle gym in the near distance. The sleek plastic slides show well in the half dark and angled metal pipes stand stark against a clouded backdrop.

Swinging back around, to the leftmost edge of the pond, there is a covered gazebo he wouldn’t touch with a very long pole. The small shelter’s half-hidden by a hanging oak, cut away from the rest of the park by the swath of water, and V knows what must happen there after hours. Or, perhaps even during the daytime. This bench is only slightly safer, on the path as it is, but he doesn’t doubt it’s seen it’s share of…_romance_.

Under his hand, Shadow shifts and sits up, claws still as razor sharp and growls as wild. Her back arches and her hackles rise, along with half her body. She’s half wisp, spitting and yowling, and V holds her as tightly as he can. She’s barely more than a baby.

“Well lookie who,” a very familiar, still adult voice sneers, and V breathes sharp. In the gloom, dark feathers blend into the night, but if he follows Shadow’s turned head, he can make out a shape.

A tiny shape, smaller even than Shadow, but growing only slightly bigger as it approaches. Shadow calms when the voice registers in her mind, sitting back on her haunches, and V feels confident enough to hold her with only one hand. The other he raises, holding it as steady as he remembers, and Griffon, because it _is_ Griffon, glides out of the night to land neatly on his fingers.

“You’re looking quite well,” V murmurs, drawing his hand close. When they last met, Griffon’s talons spanned his forearm, now they barely wrap around three fingers. The weight is barely enough to make his hand dip and V smiles as Shadow hisses and resettles herself on his lap.

She’s decided a tiny, smoky bird isn’t worth her time and has graciously granted Griffon his life. Not in so many words of course but V can extrapolate from her feline smugness and demonic pride.

A warm hand stroking along her back does wonders in appeasing her of course, and V can pretend he’s grinning at her instead. Oh yes, Shadow’s antics are what charmed him, not Griffon’s infant self. A ball of feathers and smoke that barely weigh anything, a far cry from the great owl that carried him through the underworld.

V chooses to believe the heat boiling in his throat is joy, the prickle at his eyes is happiness. He’s glad to have Griffon back too, and he’s nearly choking on it.

“And you ain’t gonna win any beauty contests,” Griffon grumbles but doesn’t protest careful fingers smoothing his ruffled feathers. 

This contract, too, is silent, done without words and without question. Smoke, ashen and dry, covers his arms and slithers into his lungs but he doesn’t choke on it. He coughs, once, twice, before his heart resets itself and shunts aside for the place where their contract will stay.

Tattoos weave themselves across his skin, covering the paleness of his arms, and V sighs. The world tilts and rights itself, the ache in his blood dies down to nothing, and he can breathe freely. He didn’t realise the short, shallow breaths he was taking until Griffon forced him to calm down and _breathe_.

“Beauty remains in the eye of the beholder, though your eyes may need some adjusting,” he jokes, settling Griffon on his shoulder. And he laughs outright when small wings buffet the side of his neck, outraged squawks blaring in his ear.

The night isn’t quite as dark with these two back with him again, and the persistent ache isn’t as terrible with Shadow’s warmth lavished over it. They, none of them, are tearing apart at the seams. Shadow and Griffon weren’t wasting when they found him, they were tired, but not fading, and neither was he.

V thinks they could’ve existed without contracts this time around. He didn’t need them for their power, and they didn’t need him for their existence, but…but it’s easier with hem. Easier than sitting alone in the dark at any rate, and easier than having only own maudlin thoughts to muddle through.

Shadow thinks about the warmth of his leg and he knobbiness of his knee. She thinks about the spice of cedar and the demonic smoke of their bird. Griffon puffs up and thinks of their last fight, the one without him. Griffon thinks of the Devil Sword Dante and the shuddering of the Qliphoth under Dante’s blows.

And V wonders if he should resent the devil hunter for that, for killing his familiars. Dante was skilled, he could have avoided them if he tried, but why would he have tried?

Dante didn’t care about the world, he cared about Vergil. Dante didn’t kill demons to make rent, he fought them because it was something to do, something to…occupy him. Fighting Vergil’s cast away traumas was easier than sneaking around them, and fighting Vergil was easier than forcing his brother to talk about anything in their lives.

Nightmare’s arrival drags him away from that particular train of thought, or rather, its tracks.

The pond remains deathly still as Nightmare raises from its depths, coalescing on the surface of the inky swirl and taking the darkness with it. Unlike Griffon and Shadow, his Nightmare is colossal and powerful as ever, and V hesitates. He leans forward but doesn’t rise and he…does Nightmare want to return to him?

There’s no church this time, and no Urizen to hide from. There’s not even a reason to appear as a golem standing in the murk of a pond.

Griffon ruffles by his ear and Shadow shuffles under his hand but V stares at his last familiar. He stares at the glowing orb of an eye and he swallows around the hard lump in his throat. Another wild wind snaps through and tosses his hair about, his white hair, and V licks his lips.

Nightmare fits into a space within his ribs, not next to his heart like Griffon or into the heat of his blood like Shadow. Nightmare belongs in his hollowed out, brittle-bird bones and lends him a strength he cannot have on his own. Before, he couldn’t survive without it and Nightmare couldn’t survive without him, but not this time.

The golem steps forward—_and V’s bones ache_—and the water stays smooth without a ripple to bely the giant standing atop it.

“You gonna do something, or you just gonna ha—” and Griffon’s voice fades under the rush in his ears.

The whole world falls away as Nightmare reforges their contract. There are no words, no entreatmeants from a desperate man or stipulations from a dying Nightmare.

There is pain, scraping in his bones, grinding and crunching as the marrow’s cleaned away for something better. For the slinking ink to settle into. He drowns in a sea of ink, filled from the inside out; staring unseeing and mouthing silent words. How long does it take? How many lives does he die?

“—ng around all night?” Griffon’s taunt finishes and V shakes. He grabs at his cane, plants the tip in the soft ground, and shakes over it.

Nightmare swims across his skin, finding its place again and creeping into his hair, and V shakes.

“Hey V, V?”

He feels steadier than he has since he woke in the alley but his body shivers like a dried leaf clinging to its breaking stem. The relief, yes _relief_, is too much for him. To have them, all three, again. To have Griffon fussing on his shoulder and Shadow yowling in his lap. To have Vergil’s nightmare, now _his_ Nightmare, reinforcing his brittle bones and blackening his hair.

To have so much is euphoric—_divine_—and his feeble body can barely handle it.

“I am…well,” he mumbles when he remembers how to use his mouth. Though he’s smiling so hard he can barely force the words past his stretched wide lips.

And they calm again, relieved too. There’s so much to do, to think about and consider, but for the moment V chooses to bask in the company of his familiars.

He will find food later, fill his belly and gather information. He will make his way back to Vergil once more, or Urizen as circumstances may be. He will find the answer to his revival, soon.

For now, he’s selfish. For now, he rests on a park bench as the sky clouds and his body resettles around the shape of his partners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the next two chapters finished and am in the middle of Nero's chapter. These boys are hard to get but I will get them. hmu on [tweeter](https://twitter.com/Darke_Eco_Freak) if you too want good things for the goth twink.


	2. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no tree when V blows into town. No demons or devils to put down and push back. There's just Devil May Cry, pizza, and questions to be answered.

When he finds Devil May Cry, after stealing money for travel fare and food, after testing the limits of his body, all with a single goal in mind, V…hesitates.

He’s tired, he’s been walking all day; from bus station to bus station then halfway across this town to Devil May Cry because the buses don’t run here. He’s grimy and sour from a week of travelling with no proper rest. He dare not stop in his wild dash back to Dante because time was precious, specifically because he’d woken alone. 

And V has been thinking of what he could say, what he _should_ say. To Vergil if his…_self_ is there, if Urizen truly did not return with him. To Nero if the boy happens to be hanging around. To Dante who might fling him through a wall before he listens to anything V has to say again. He’s been thinking himself in circles over it and still hasn’t found an answer, so he stalls.

On the sidewalk, just before the shop, as the sun sets and the neon sign flickers to life. Devil May Cry. Vergil never asked his brother about that name, he never cared, but V wonders now. As he stands on the sidewalk and stares like a mangy stray peering through a lit window. A lone car passes by, blocking the view of the shopfront, and V takes the chance to slip into a side alley.

The day is finally cooling after another mid-summer heat wave, the streets are emptying, and V is stalling. He shouldn’t, but he is. The last time he came here, he had a purpose and a reason beyond himself. Dante was willing to listen to him because he was paying in cash, and because he brought news of Vergil.

What does he bring now? His own scrawny self in unwashed clothes and familiars Dante’s fought twice before; memories Vergil never wants back.

“And _why_ are we just waiting around?” Griffon prods, materialising on V’s shoulder as he’s wont to do now. And, for once, his question isn’t taunting, teasing, or mocking. Griffon’s genuinely asking, and V genuinely doesn’t know how to respond.

He fidgets with his cane instead, worrying the head, running his fingers along the shaft. He tips his head back and watches the sky lazily pink over, shot through with streaks of orange and blurs of blue. Under his skin, Shadow wonders the same as Griffon and Nightmare stays silent.

They’ll go wherever he takes them, help him get wherever he wants. They don’t have real wants of their own beyond a continued existence; V wanted to go back to Devil May Cry so they helped him. Shadow pretended to be a cute little thing, charming random people while Griffon pick-pocketed them. Nightmare helped him break into locked washrooms and stood guard while he made do with scraps of toilet paper and soap.

They’d all helped him here because he’d asked, but this was a bad move. Dante certainly doesn’t want to see him again and has no obligation to him. They shouldn’t have come.

“Well, well, well, look who’s back from the…Vergil,” Dante says and V’s half-open mouth snaps shut violently.

Griffon squawks in surprise and Shadow materialises at his feet, puffed up and growling, but neither attack Dante. Who’s there, right there. Standing at the mouth of the alley with a decidedly smug grin and an air of ease so thick it must be contrived.

He’s the same as V remembers from his own memories at the top of the Qliphoth. Hair still brushing his collar and falling shaggy about his unshaven face. Still as effortlessly handsome now as he was then. Dante grew into his looks, into his own legend, and he’s calmer now than he was as a youth.

But, he’s still the man in red. The hunter blazing through Vergil’s monochrome memories, eating into his bad dreams and dragging light into his nightmares. Dante, standing at the head of the alley, appears like a vision in a nightmare and V grips his cane tighter.

He can’t fight Dante, not even at his peak, but he can distract. Distract and run? Is that the last impression he’ll leave on the sons of Sparda before he disappears again?

“Forgive my intrusion, I’ll take my leave now,” is stilted and impeccably polite in complete juxtaposition to Shadow’s yowl and Griffon’s caw. They’re ready to attack, no matter how futile the attempt may be, and Nightmare lurches in his bones.

They can run, of course they can run. He reassures himself as Shadow and Griffon retreat to his skin, too small to keep up in a mad dash. He drops his cane, holds it just behind the handle, and readies his Nightmare.

“Leaving already? You didn’t even say hi to the kid yet,” Dante jokes, so light-hearted, but he shifts too. Settling his weight and readying himself for an attack. Well then.

V considers what staying may offer him. Seeing Nero alive and well with his own eyes is rather tempting, sorting out his existence more so, but he still hesitates. Travelling with his familiars, though tiring, has been enjoyable. Sleeping in busses and eating at roadside diners has given him something he never thought to ask for.

Family. Family and happiness, tentative and so very fragile, but there and real. What could…perhaps it…might Sparda’s kin afford him the same?

There really is only one way to know.

“It would be rude to leave without greeting him,” V murmurs, every word soft and delicate in his mouth. He bites them off with blunt teeth, lets them fall into the space between himself and what is nearly his brother.

Dante is Vergil’s twin, half of his self, and V is part of what’s left over. There are so many pieces to Vergil; his demon and his human, his brother and his own self, and they hardly ever play nice. So, where does that leave the human and the brother?

V wants to like Dante. Vergil’s emotions make that hard, make things complicated, but V wants this. He wants this more than he’s wanted anything in his short life, and it may in fact be the first thing he’s ever wanted simply because it would make him happy.

“Great, he’s coming with dinner, and you can stay for that too,” is how Dante manoeuvres him into Devil May Cry as the night darkens and the stars peep out.

The shop is much the same as V’s last visit. Garbage piled in the corners, devil arms hung on the walls like novelty toys, and lewd magazines scattered around. An odd sort of comfort settles behind his breastbone as he takes it all in; he spent some hours here after all, got acquainted with the lumpy couch.

He expects to sit there the entire wait for Nero. V doesn’t have his book anymore, has vague recollections of tossing it to Nero before plunging into the heart of the world, but he can entertain himself without it. He doesn’t get the chance, however, as Dante doesn’t let him stop in the front room. One firm hand on his shoulder steers him into the back, through the kitchen, and to a bathroom.

Unlike the front, the bathroom is impeccably clean. The tiles are pale blue and the shower stall is small but grandiose compared to rest stop washrooms. Dante doesn’t say a word as he hands over a towel, unopened soap, and even a tiny bottle of shampoo. V doesn’t ask any questions as he takes what’s offered, and he doesn’t call on his familiars as he strips down.

The leather jacket wore well during their trip and his trench coat never needed much cleaning after bloody duels with demons; leather _is_ the premier material of choice for devil hunting. The soft shirt fared less well though, and his pants have the distinct scent of sweat woven into the fibres. The shirt gets tossed in the sink, to soak while he bathes, the pants he can do nothing for without detergent.

Maybe he should have waited, tested the water, but he’s had a week on the road and no proper place to wash himself, V doesn’t _care_. He steps into the burning spray and lets it wash over his tired body for a few blissful minutes. There’s a pleasure in the burn, something partly Vergil and partly himself now. The burn of muscles after a long, satisfying fight; the burn of water after a long, content road trip.

The soap smells of nothing, which is fine, but the shampoo is something citrus and makes him long for homemade lime juice. Each do their job though and leave him feeling slightly rubbed raw but ultimately clean. The small room hazes over with steam, water-logged air heavy in his lungs, and relaxing in its way. His body drips and his hair’s stuck to his nape, his face, but this is the best he’s felt in his entire disjointed existence.

A hot shower’s the nicest thing he’s had, and something about that makes him want to start a fight. Something else, sharp and barbed, pricks at his eyes and throat until he’s forced to draw a ragged breath lest it overwhelm him. Is it sad? To have a poor man’s road trip and a hot shower at the end be the best things he’s personally experienced? Or, is it simply human? Creature comforts and companionship, humanity lusts for both.

His shirt is still damp when he pulls it back on, wrung out to the best of his abilities, but it’s refreshing. He doesn’t lean as heavily on his cane as he leaves the steamy bathroom and Dante’s waiting for him in the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the table.

“Vergil’s still Vergil, and he’s coming here to figure out what—,” Dante pauses to wave a hand at him, “—this is. Should be here by morning.”

Which is how V gets coerced into spending the night at Devil May Cry as well.

Maybe he should protest, insist on different accommodations, but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits quietly, reading a take-out menu, and only looks up when Nero barges in with arms full of pizza boxes.

“What the _fuck_?”

And Dante lunges to catch their dinner.

* * *

“So you’re just…back?” Nero asks after the shouting and cursing has died down.

He blamed Dante at first, fingers twitching around an absent weapon, as he rounded on his uncle. V half expected a fight to break out and readied himself to summon Nightmare. His golem would smash through the ceiling into the second floor, destroy the nearest wall, but such damage would be miniscule compared to a fight between Nero and Dante. Even one where neither used half their power.

They don’t fight though, not when Shadow comes charging out of his tattoos and V has to snatch her mid-air as she pounces. Both men stare at her, squirming and growling in V’s hands, and fall apart with a huff.

Nero blamed Vergil next, sitting heavily in a chair and digging out a battered phone to call his father. Dante plucked it right out of his hands and exchanged it for a pizza box, and there was still no fight. Now, Nero’s gesturing with a slice of cheese and pepperoni, and viciously defending his box from Dante and sharing his bounty with V.

“No Urizen? No vampire tree? Just you and the three musketeers?”

Griffon snorts at that and V smiles, feeding him a slice of pepperoni to keep his beak occupied. Nero’s kinder than his uncle, Dante would’ve called them the three stooges, V’s sure, but isn’t that Nero in his entirety?

Nero is _kind_. He cares about humanity in a way his uncle does not and his father never has. He takes care of children not his own and now, now he’s choosing to believe a man who only ever lied to him in the past. Lies of omission, lies of necessity, but lies all the same.

“As far as I’ve gathered,” V murmurs, giving the rest of the slice to Shadow. She eats now, like Griffon, and her big eyes are a lethal compulsion. Never mind the way they disappear the second she has whatever she was after, a pizza crust in this case.

Shadow gambols off to a nest of napkins, chewing happily and purring when Nero reaches over to pet her. She wouldn’t have allowed such a thing before, her affection was reserved for her summoner and her summoner alone, but now she’ll take it however she can get it. Though, perhaps not from Dante, not yet, as she swipes irritably at his wandering fingers.

“What does that make you?” and V really can’t help his rueful smile. That question, again, and he still doesn’t have a satisfying answer.

Nero’s frown and scrunched brows say, “_I don’t actually expect an answer, but could’ya lie maybe?”_ and V thinks, what lie could he tell this time? Before, it was about getting the devil hunters to help him rejoin his lost half. Any lies he told were in service of his one purpose, and thus, easier to tell.

Now though, what excuse can he use? Especially as he doesn’t _want_ to lie.

What _does_ he want? To be loved, and protected, but he can get that from his familiars. Shadow and Griffon and Nightmare love him, in their ways, and they protect him. They are the closest thing he may ever have to family and he…wants family.

V wants a family and, perhaps, that is one of _Vergil’s_ long suppressed desires, but it doesn’t make _V’s_ longing any less real. Vergil wanted his brother, and his parents, but V will take whatever he can get like the dirty parasite he is.

“Perhaps, your older sibling?” he only half teases, smiling to smother the thready longing behind his words. He was born of Vergil, an unconventional form of reproduction to be sure but V _is_ Vergil’s offspring. Perhaps not of Vergil’s blood but certainly of his flesh and what are relatives if not flesh _and_ blood? He should be able to consider Vergil’s family his own.

Nero stares, narrow eyed and confused, and V’s smile drops away. Ah, well maybe he _can’t_ consider Vergil’s family his own. A “_just kidding_” stalls in his throat, stuck, as Nero slowly frowns and the urge to run seeps in again, like blood from a reopened wound.

“Typical Vergil, he pops out the kids and old Uncle Dante has to look after ‘em,” Dante sighs, slicing through the tension, and Nero turns his frown on him instead. While V breathes very carefully, as still as possible.

Nero is a kind person, but emotional. Every flittering feeling shows itself so easily on his face, in his serious green eyes. He doesn’t even try to hide it, like Vergil would, or deflect with an easy-going smirk, like Dante does. He lays his emotions bare and doesn’t pull their punches for anyone’s benefit; V should be glad confusion was the worst he saw on Nero’s face.

Because, V isn’t family and he hasn’t done anything to be considered more than an ally. He should be content in that; the easy companionship they built while fighting their way through hellish blood and gore. He should be glad he wasn’t attacked on sight or forced to answer every question Nero could devise. He should be _grateful_.

Instead, he wants more. And though Blake may have insisted man could not desire what he had not perceived, V disagrees. He desires many things—_one thin_g—he’s never had the chance to experience.

He was born wanting companionship and belonging, despite knowing he was a cast-off husk. He has wanted power as long as he can remember, despite never having much of his own. He was created to bear another man’s humanity and longing but what he feels now is distinctly his.

“What was that? Cause it didn’t sound like an apology for sending me after _rats_, Dante,” Nero grouses, switching the whole of his attention, and that’s that for the night.

V eats in silence, plied with pizza by Nero _and_ Dante, while they bicker back and forth. Sometimes Griffon joins in, taking sides against one or the other, and sometimes they team up to mock his familiar, but they don’t start on V. Once or twice Dante’s focus shifts on him, pale eyes and a wry smirk, but Griffon distracts him before it can move any further.

And V’s grateful. He doesn’t know why Nero’s here, at Devil May Cry instead of back in Fortuna, but he suspects Dante called him. Another pair of eyes on their mysterious guest. V can’t hurt them, either of them, he’s not powerful enough and doesn’t have half the inclination, but Dante is always overly cautious wherever Vergil might be concerned.

Vergil who is not here, and who Dante supposedly spoke to on the phone. V isn’t sure where his progenitor is, can’t remember the last moments before his waking in an unfamiliar place. He knows things, in a vague way. He knows Vergil works with Devil May Cry because it allows him access to the supernatural market and provides a convenient excuse to stay close to his kin.

He knows Nero fought both brothers after their return and threatened them with future beat downs if they ever swanned off without him again. He knows Nero breaks up some of their more serious squabbles and inflicted a “_don’t break shop shit_” rule. He even knows that Nero’s adopted children have all met Vergil, under heavy supervision, and consider him family in a vague sense. But details are…tricky, time is tricky.

“Nico’ll be here in ten, but I can stay the night,” Nero says, letting the offer hang and be filled in by whatever they decide. To keep an eye on V? Lest he take the opportunity to attack under the cover night? To be there when Vergil arrives first thing in the morning and perhaps punch his father in the face over this?

The possibilities are truly endless, and V tilts his head, looks to Dante to answer. After all, Devil May Cry isn’t his home and he can’t just invite whomever he pleases.

“Nah, we’re good here. I’ll call ya if Vergil needs an asskicking later though,” Dante promises and that’s good enough for now.

Nero has questions, V can see it in his green-green eyes, but he doesn’t let them slip past his tight lips. He knows V doesn’t have the answers he wants, the satisfying ones, so he lets them rest for now.

Together, they clear away the boxes while Dante sits idly by. The paper plates they used get crumpled and thrown into the already overflowing garbage and the boxes get added to a precarious pile. Used napkins have their own bag hooked over a chair and Shadow gets to keep the ones she shredded for her nest.

When a horn blares less than three minutes later, V isn’t too shocked, he knows Nico’s driving doesn’t pay much attention to the road laws. If the authorities can’t catch her, then there’s no proof what she’s doing is wrong.

Nero opens his mouth, possibly to ask one last question, but shuts it again when Nico lays on the horn for ten whole seconds. Then he’s gone and Dante stretches, lazy and contrived.

V expects the real questions to start now, sits up straight and grips his cane tight. Dante has been accommodating in a way he did not anticipate; inviting him for dinner, offering him a shower, allowing him to stay the night. The kindnesses are mounting, they must be repaid, and V suspects there will be interest.

“You really don’t know how you’re back huh?” Dante sighs, shaking his head, and looking far older than he should. V would call it world weary if this weren’t Dante. Enthusiastic, ever laid back, Dante; his zest for life only superseded by his passion for fighting.

It’s a trick of the light, the washed-out white does nothing for him, only casts sharp shadows across his face and hides his eyes. It draws lines around his mouth, into the corners of his eyes, and paints an old man’s wariness over Dante’s face in messy strokes. It’s all a trick of the light, of course, and V does not appreciate it.

“I have no reason to lie,” he murmurs, but leaves the rest unsaid. That he wouldn’t lie to Nero, that it would feel inherently wrong to do so.

The light must not be doing him any favours either though, must be cutting through the disinterest he took such care to construct. Because Dante smirks, humourless and knowing. He’s perceptive, V forgot how perceptive, and it would be in his best interest to remember.

Dante is a predator, more so than Vergil. Vergil, though deadly, has always dealt in control and precision, while Dante lives for adrenaline inducing spectacles and doesn’t care who pays witness. Where Nero never learned to mask his emotion, Dante never learnt to give a damn about his own perception. He does as he pleases, and devil take the hind quarter.

“Not to the kid,” he confirms, saying aloud what V left unspoken, and V has to nod.

He remembers holding the Sparda above this man’s head, the weight of it dragging him down and fighting against his weak…everything. The Sparda had recognised him as something to it, not kin but not stranger either. It had let V lift it, but he has no doubt it would have turned had he landed his blow.

He also remembers chasing after Vergil’s reckless little brother, legs buckling under him and sending him sprawling. Dante had stared at him then, amusement swimming in his pale eyes, laughing at V’s expense. Had he been dismissed then and there as a useless human? Barely able to stand on his own and cracking apart at the seams.

Nero had helped him, and Dante had left him hobbling behind. Now he’s sitting at Dante’s table, in Dante’s shop, and he’s presumably going to sleep here too.

“Get some sleep V, you think too much.”

And then Dante leaves him again, getting to his feet with a sigh and a sly smile, and wandering back into the front room. Doesn’t tell V where he’ll be sleeping, doesn’t even tell him to head upstairs.

V thinks about calling him back, or following him, but he knows he’ll have that look thrown at him again. Amused pity, the look given to a mongrel dog that’s done something almost endearing.

He ends up sitting at the table well into the night, reading more take-out menus and watching Shadow and Griffon play. Neither of them try to hustle him off to bed, Griffon doesn’t even joke about him not _having_ a bed. They amuse themselves until Dante leaves the front of the shop for his bedroom, every step on the staircase creaking as he goes.

Then, they trail after V into the room they barely remember and climb onto the couch they do. Sleep comes, after staring into the neon-glow dark for he doesn’t know who long, sleep comes, and V does not dream.

* * *

Vergil does not have the answers any of them want; he doesn’t have any answers at all.

V wakes when the sun glints off the open door into his eyes, and finds Vergil standing there, watching him. And it’s then and there that V realises. They’ve never met. The nature of their existence has never allowed such a thing, but here they are now.

With Vergil watching him and V staring at a man he knows intimately, staring at a face that’s his own but very much not.

There’s no resemblance between Vergil and his humanity, which is entirely ironic and entirely expected. There’s power in perception, in impressions, and Vergil has always wanted to make a good one. A carefully dangerous one. The silver in his hair implies experience while the lines around his mouth only bely wisdom, never age. And there’s nothing but power in his straight-backed stance.

Vergil stands at the ready, in the woozy light of morning, looking quite angelic; a holy soldier.

And V sits on a stained couch in rumpled clothes. There are dark bags under his eyes, sharp lines of exhaustion cutting across his face. He’s far from put together after a week of travel, and he’s far from powerful. Instead of a sword, he has a cane propped by his hand, rather than a holy warrior, he’s naught but the lowly squire.

“So, Dante was right,” Vergil says, voice smooth, a touch below nasally. V knows that voice, it is his voice in an abstract way, but he never expected to hear it. Not outside of his head or his fading memories.

Hearing it now catches him off guard, but it shouldn’t, Dante told him Vergil would be coming. And here he is, standing in the doorway with boredom sewn tight over his face. V knows Vergil is assessing him, tallying his power and calculating how much effort it would take to end him. Not much.

Silver eyes stay cold and bored, never once betraying thought or emotion, but V can read what’s there better than any other. Vergil looks at him and sees weakness. V looks at Vergil and sees disgust in the corners of what could be a frown.

The disgust shouldn’t burn like a flashfire searing his nerves numb. V should have expected it. He _was_ cut away after all, removed like a cancerous growth and left to die in the ruin of Vergil’s childhood.

“Well, since I’m here, there’s clearly no need for you,” Vergil muses, voice light as he steps into the shop and blots out the soft sunlight.

Griffon and Shadow scream at him, fight to burst out of his tattoos, and Nightmare rumbles to life instinctively. Vergil isn’t bothering to hide his killing intent. His fingers curling around Yamato’s tsuba is practically a neon sign blinking brighter than the one above the shop entrance.

Vergil doesn’t know how V came to be again. And he doesn’t care. He’ll chalk this up to yet another strange happenstance in his remarkable life and move on with his business.

He barely bothers with a formal stance, drawing Yamato with a lazy grace and levelling the tip at V’s chest. His oh so human heart. It’s pounding now, beating against his ribs till he can barely hear over it.

He should let his familiars out, let them run free because Vergil won’t care about them, but they refuse to go. If he won’t let them fight, then they’ll die here—_again_—with him; together.

V only sees the flick of Vergil’s wrist—_his killing blow_—because he knows how his self fights and keeps his eyes open to meet it. Grey steel and steel-grey eyes will be his last sight and V forces himself to be content with that.

Except. Yamato sings past his face rather than through his heart and V pales as Dante deflects his brother’s blow.

The Devil Sword Dante is huge, broad, and warm against his chest where it covers his heart. Where it _covered_ his heart and protected him from Yamato.

“Stay _out_ of this, Dante,” Vergil says conversationally, but they can all hear the annoyance behind it. He tries again, to take V’s head off this time with an elegant sweep, and Dante blocks that too.

“When have I ever stayed out of your business, Vergil?” Dante jokes, and there’s an edge to his voice despite the light tone. He holds himself casually, but the same iron has been beaten into his spine; the brothers have always been so much the same.

The Sparda twins stand inhumanly still as they stare each other down, and V’s bare breaths can hardly compare. He is prey caught between deadly predators who can’t calm his rabbiting heart or blown wide eyes.

Nightmare wants him to run, protective instinct blaring loud in his head, but V cannot. He dare not. He’s not even sure he could force himself to his feet.

What sets them off, he can’t even say, doesn’t see. The Devil Sword Dante disappears and the clash of metal echoes from across the room before V can turn his head, then a grunt from behind the desk, and a growl from the door.

They fight in an out of his perception, faster and faster, but damningly contained. They don’t leave the shop, don’t leave the room, and don’t break anything inside of it. Though lightning crackles and summoned swords clash in mid-air. Though they’re half-demonic, scales and tails and wings flashing. They don’t break a single thing.

The brothers fight, back and forth across the room, and V sits quietly like a disobedient child whose parents can’t agree on his punishment. No, he’s barely even that. He’s flotsam caught in a storm of violence. He can only be tossed by the waves and buffeted by the gales with no power to escape either.

“You can’t just kill your problems Vergil!” Dante snarls, striking out with shards of ice.

“Can’t I?” Vergil replies, calm and put together as ever.

And V sits as blood is spilt over him, _for_ him. His mouth’s sour with sleep and the cheese he ate last night, his eyes burn from early mornings and long nights, but he doesn’t move. And not because he fears Dante’s fire, though it brushes his cheek as it burns by. Not even because the Yamato only needs one opening to impale him, one misstep in this devilish waltz.

V stays, prey still, because Dante is **_protecting_** him and he doesn’t know why.

And maybe the three of them would have remained trapped in their tableau of carnage for hours, _days_, if not for Nero. Kind, caring Nero who grabs his father and uncle mid-attack and flings them out the door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” and an entirely different fight starts.

“He tried to kill V! You can’t kill your humanity Vergil,” Dante yells, first to Nero then at Vergil, and not caring that they’re in the middle of the street. Nero threw him into a building and he brushes it off, standing with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face that V remembers from his fight with Urizen.

He was mad then, desperate, for Nero to get away and be safe. And V had thought, at the time, that Dante was looking after his son. Vergil hadn’t known and V hadn’t guessed but Dante did, and he’d asked V to get his last piece of family away from a demon that would destroy the world.

What does it mean to see that same expression on Dante’s face…for him?

“It is either a construct created by errant black magic or sent deliberately to gain our trust then betray it,” which is a valid theory, V cannot deny that.

And when Vergil says it so simply, head cocked to observe his son, Yamato ready to deflect his brother, who could argue with him? What would be the point?

Griffon argues, loudly and without pause. He shouts in V’s head, rages and rants, and Shadow yowls right along with him. Vergil is _wrong_, according to them, he’s scared and too prideful to admit it, like always. He doesn’t know what to do and refuses to ask for help, like last time.

“Bullshit,” Dante says, another smirk to cover up _his_ emotions, and V glances at Nero. Through the glass and on the pavement with his wings crossed and his blade drawn.

Nero set himself between Dante and Vergil, —and _V_—and the shop. Like Dante’s protection, V doesn’t know quite what to make of this.

Nero is of the peacekeeper of the three, he remembers that from Vergil’s memories. Nero steers sparring away from populated areas and only lets fights get a dozen impalations in before he breaks them up.

Right now, he’s put himself between something that could be dangerous and his kin. Or, has he put himself between V and a fight that could kill him all too easy?

V’s so focused on the standoff in the street he almost misses the distinct sound of the backdoor being slammed shut. Shadow doesn’t though, and she takes advantage of his split-second confusion to slip free. And doesn’t waste time planting herself between him and the devils outside.

“Well shit, it really is you,” Nico says, from presumably the back kitchen. He doesn’t dare tear his gaze from the confrontation, or from Shadow who may very well slide through the wall to join the fray.

There’s a stiffness in his bones—joints, it is morning after all. A cold morning not yet touched by the heat of the day, and V knows his body will betray him if he doesn’t force it to comply. Taking his eyes off Shadow for an instant may end in her injury, or death, and that he will not allow.

“Ah don’t worry about them, Nero’s got ‘em under control,” Nico says, certain and absolute, but that is only what she believes. She believes in her friend, in Nero, and she doesn’t know Vergil.

Vergil _will_—

“What are you doing?” he stammers as Nico grabs Shadow with one hand and his own arm with the other.

“Taking you to breakfast, it’ll be my treat,” she hums, easily dragging him away.

He should complain, shouldn’t let her take him away. Vergil is his responsibility, or at least his problem, he shouldn’t leave this to Dante and Nero.

…but his stomach disagrees, as do all of his familiars. Nico is taking him away from the deadly fight? Wonderful, they support her wholeheartedly. Even Shadow who does not appreciate being manhandled by a woman she does not know. However, if this woman will help, and feed, her summoner, then she will endure this for him.

“Gotcha walking stick right here, and we parked out back,” Nico’s explaining as they leave Devil May Cry, “Nero thought it’d turn into a fight.”

Which…is unexpected. V hadn’t thought there would be a fight, rather, he hadn’t thought there would be a fight between the sons of Sparda. He’d assumed there would be a fight to return to Vergil, or another bout with Urizen, but not this. Not Dante protecting him or Nero arranging to have him snuck out the back.

Here he is none the less, being toted behind a woman more than a head shorter than him who looks no different than when they last met. Her tattoos are as vibrant and her hair as bouncy; there aren’t any new wrinkles that he can see as they hurry through a back alley. So perhaps it hasn’t been as long as he thought.

Not the years he feared but perhaps months. Even the trailer is the same, if not a few scratches and dents the richer.

“He’s got it V,” and her easy-going levity falls away for a moment. Her eyes are hard when she turns and her lips are set in a frown, so much unlike what he knows of her.

Is this her serious face? How she is when she needs to make a point? V doesn’t know, but he thinks he would like to. He wants to know her, Nico, because she was kind to him as well. She was a breath of fresh air cutting through the putrid stink of viscera and he remembers her fondly.

She fed him, once, during the hours of fighting through a demon infested city. Said he looked too peaky and needed to keep his strength up if he was going to keep bringing her goodies.

And here she is again, putting on what might be her serious face in an attempt at making him listen to her. She could bundle him into the trailer instead, force him to listen when they’re already moving, but she’s giving him something of a choice instead. To go along of his own volition, instead of coerced by the devils at his back.

“You’re probably thinking ‘bout running back there and doing something real stupid, but I’m telling you, Nero knows what he’s doing. He planned on stealing you away last night, before Vergil got here but things ran a little late,” she explains, handing over his cane and Shadow. One much gentler than the other despite the durability of both; Shadow the hell kitten can still outlast a mere cane.

“Everything’ll still be fine though. Nero’ll beat some sense into his dumbass daddy, and Dante’ll help. In the meantime, we get to play catch up over some bacon ‘n eggs,” Nico says happily, back to the woman he knows. Her smile is a physical thing.

And V…considers. He has options, Nico has laid them quite plainly for him. To leave and let the situation sort itself out—_no_, to leave the situation to Nero who is more than capable or stay and ride out the storm. If he stays, there’s no guarantee of his survival. Vergil is too good a fighter and too ruthless a devil.

If he goes, there’s food to be had and conversation to be made, and a chance of living longer than a month. V knows which Nico and Nero prefer, they’ve already made their stance clear, and he knows what his familiars are avidly campaigning for. He isn’t sure where his own desires fall but his choice is obvious.

“And pancakes?” he asks, hopeful that pancakes aren’t pushing Nico’s already bountiful generosity.

“And pancakes,” Nico promises, then she hustles him into the trailer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V's just -clenches fist- so good! I know in the Before the Nightmare companion novel Dante suspects V doesn't even need his cane and in the Visions of V comic he finds it and just uses it for demon killing but I say Beans To Canon! V needs his cane because he has achey knees and that's that on that.


	3. Uncle Dante reporting for duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brawling in the street is a time honoured, Sparda family tradition. Welcome to the family V

When they were six, Vergil fell out of a tree and broke his leg. Dante remembers it plain as day. Vergil squirreling up the tree cause Dante threw his book into the top branches, face pinched in a scowl with his hair falling in his eyes; they still wore their hair the same back then. He’d wanted Vergil to stop reading and play with him, all that reading was sooo boring, but Vergil wouldn't even look at him. So, Dante snatched the book, ran all the way outside, and threw it way, way up into the big oak because no way would Vergil ever climb it, Mom said they weren't allowed to and Vergil always listened to Mom. 

Dante probably should’ve known his brother wouldn't care about rules if it meant he didn't have to do what Dante wanted, because quicker than he could grab, Vergil was swinging himself up into the tip-top branches. Getting leaves stuck in his hair and scratched to shit by twigs on the way while Dante yelled at him from the ground. Yelled that he was going too high and Mom would be so mad and come back down Vergil!

He didn’t though because why would he ever listen to his stupid little brother? Dante remembers running around yelling and squinting up to see Vergil shimmy out onto a too thin branch. Then yelling even louder when the branch started to bend under Vergil's weight.

“Vergil you’re gonna—” was about as far as he got before the branch snapped and they both froze. Eyes wide, staring at each other for one horrified second, before gravity yanked and Vergil hit the ground, hard.

Dante was there almost before Vergil touched the grass, hands fluttering frantic but too scared to touch. He remembers his heart in his throat, choking him, because Vergil’s _bone_ was poking out of Vergil’s _skin_. That was the first time either of them saw anything so nasty; white bone covered in a film of sticky red blood. The icky gooey gush of it, slicking Vergil’s calf, staining his socks and the grass and Dante's fingers when he finally touched his twin's leg.

For some reason, Vergil calmly explaining why he should be allowed to slit his humanity’s throat reminds Dante of that. Vergil sprawled in the grass, biting his lip bloody and fixing Dante with the sharpest glare a six-year-old could. As another six-year-old, he can confirm, it was pretty sharp.

Back then, Vergil didn’t want Dante telling. He didn’t want Mom to think he was weak, a broken bone was nothing. Dad used to tell stories about getting hurt worse all the time and Vergil always wanted to be like Dad, even way back then.

“_It_ is my responsibility, Nero,” he says, shifting his stance as Nico drives off, and Dante snorts. Right, his responsibility. Vergil’s being the bigger man here, the _responsible_ one, and this isn’t anything like a stubborn kid wrapping shaking fingers around his own broken bone.

Bastard didn’t scream back then, passed out, scared Dante half to death and left him yelling for Mom, but Vergil never made a noise or backed down. And something tells him his brother ain’t gonna back down now either.

He’s got that half-stubborn, half-constipated look on his face that only goes away after an ass kicking or something more interesting bumbles along. And it _must_ be Dante’s lucky day because Nero’s got the same look on his face; it’s a two for one special on stubborn.

Nero and Vergil can go for hours if he lets them, which is different from Dante and Vergil going for hours. Fighting is how they bond; it’s how they slake the bloodlust that’s built into their bones and tolerate each other without actual fratricide. Them fighting is fine, eh, most of the time it’s fine, and Nero stops them before they go too far these days.

When Nero fights his old man though, that’s a little ah complicated. And the way Nero’s parked in front the shop promises one hell of a complication if Vergil keeps pushing him.

“Like hell it is,” Nero yells, already fired up and ready to go, which is commendable. It’s barely six in the morning and the kid’s ready to fight the day away. Ah youth, ya gotta love it. So much energy to do so many things. 

Meanwhile, Dante’s been working on instinct since Vergil swanned in with the sun. Demon instincts shouting “_Powerful demon in your territory! Kill it now_!” and brotherly instincts groaning “_ah shit, here we go again_”.

Maybe he shouldn’t’ve gone to sleep last night, he should’a stayed up and waited to face this problem head on, but his belly was full, and he was already pre-exhausted from thinking about V could exist again. So he probably dropped the ball on that, letting Vergil get as close as he did—_letting him draw Yamato_—but V’s safe so it’s fine.

And now, they’re all yelling in street—_except for Mr Responsible_—and Dante thought they were over shit like this. The sun’s not hot yet but it is annoyingly bright and he kinda wants some breakfast but he’s gotta deal with this first.

Personally, Dante’s got no problem with V hanging around. He’s quiet and already cleans up after himself, and what’s one more stray around here anyway? Not like he’s hurting for space, there’s a couple spare rooms that’d do as bedrooms and it might be nice to live with someone who already knows what's up. Patty took some time getting used to him and Morrison isn't around enough to care about all the weird, vaguely demonic shit that just _happens_ around him.

Patty used to complain about the whispering she could never track down and the chills up her spine that made it hard to sleep through the night. He'd suggested sleeping in the day but she just gave him one of her flat, "_don't be stupid_" looks and he shut up. V though, V's got his own creepy-crawly, spooky-scary skeletons and probably knows how to deal with Dante's. Plus V ain't part demon and his baby squad don't set Dante's teeth on edge; they're too weak to encroach on his territory. 

“What if you kill him and you die too? You think of that?” Nero snarls, sidestepping when Vergil tries to casually peak into the shop. Not that it does much, they’ve still got inches on the kid and the windows don’t have curtains.

Besides, they all know V’s not there anymore, but only Nero knows where Nico took him. Give it long enough and Nero might not even know, that girl has a hard time staying put, which works right now. Can’t track whatcha can’t predict after all.

“He’s still part of you jackass.”

Which is also a damn good point, and something Dante’s been wondering since the lil weirdo showed up outside his shop. He’d thought his eyes were playing tricks on him first. Late evening, sun just about to set, perfect time to see shadows out the corner of his eye and for ghosts to come wandering by. But the ghost across the street was different than the usual bunch, this one had a _scent_, and his footsteps made _noise_.

So if it wasn't a ghost and wasn't his eyes, then maybe _Vergil_ was playing tricks on him. Dying his hair black and getting a couple temp tattoos would’ve been a stretch but his brother’s always been determined. Chubby fingers slipping on blood, silver eyes full of tears, and not stopping for the world.

“What a pitiful end that would be,” said determined brother hums, and sheathes his sword.

And Dante automatically relaxes; his muscles untense, _his_ sword disappears in a blaze of hellfire, and he sits down right there in the street. Nero frowns harder, if that’s possible, but he doesn’t budge from in front that door, which is fair. He’s probably expecting a sneak attack, a sucker punch or a horde of demons busting out of hell to carry Vergil away.

Wouldn’t be the first time, probably not this time though.

A smart fighter keeps their opponent front and centre at all times, they try to predict the next step in the fight and force an opening for themself. Dante’d call himself a competent fighter, he gets the job done, gets paid, and that’s the important thing. But, when it comes to his dear brother, he’s the stupidest schmuck in the room.

He’s just too keyed into how Vergil fights, and how he relaxes. If Yamato’s put away, then Vergil’s not gonna play. He’s accepted that Nero out manoeuvred him, and maybe he’s a lil proud about that; there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips that’s definitely a Vergil-smile.

As for Dante, he’s just tired. Everything’s an ordeal in this family, a punch up. And, don’t get him wrong, he’s always up for a fight, but he really doesn't wanna fight over someone else's life. When it's just him and Vergil, it's _just_ him and Vergil. They fight to be better than each other, not the fate of the world and billions of lives. Fighting over another person feels wrong, like he fell out of a trigger but his scales retracted upside down or something. 

“I won’t let you kill him, father,” and he’s gotta hand it to the kid, that “_father_” wasn’t half-awkward. Completely at odds with the shifty eyes and fidgeting fingers but he’s got the tone, and Vergil’s twitchy lips go full on ghost-of-a-smile, it’s practically a Vergil-grin.

Dante crosses his legs, leans back and soaks in some sun as he considers this whole…_thing_. And as Verge does his best not to give his “_cold as ice_” game away.

V’s back, somehow, and he brought the whole circus with him. He’s still one hundred percent human, not even a lick of demon blood holding those creaky bones together, but he can still use demon magic. And there’s no Urizen, as far as they know, which doesn’t sound too bad to him.

So V’s back, so what? The guy’d probably hurt himself trying to hurt _them_ and his demon stooges are all babyfied. Dante doesn’t see a problem here. V can stay at the shop. He can pick one of the storerooms and Dante can clear out the devil arms, get another bed, it’d be fine. He already cleared one out for Vergil’s new library and that only took a day of cleaning, what’s one more?

And, if V wants, he can work as a hunter for Devil May Cry, if he doesn't then Dante’s always wanted a secretary. V can handle all the phone calls, especially the ones from Patty, maybe even make that website Nero’s been complaining about. Or, they can both get kicked out of the internet café together, whichever’s fine with him.

Whatever happens, Dante’s not letting V die. The guy’s almost family…family adjacent, and Dante doesn’t have much family so he can’t afford to lose this little piece. He knows Vergil might not see it that way, probably still thinks he’s too good for family, but Dante knows he’ll come around.

“Then we’re at an impasse,” Vergil decides after a good minute and Dante snorts. An impasse, right.

What his dear brother meant was, “_I’m going to do some research, and I am going to understand what’s going on, and **then** I’m going to kill him with permission_.”

Dante gives it a month for Verge to figure out what’s what and try to disembowel V again. Hopefully, with some luck and pizzazz, V’ll grow on his uh, his Vergil and murder’ll be off the table. If not, Nero’ll step in again and Dante’ll be back up.

Speaking of, Nero’s standing with his hands swinging, eyes narrowed as he tries to figure out what his father’s really saying. There’s a specific art to figuring out what the hell Vergil’s ever talking about, so he doesn’t blame the kid, Nero hasn’t had the chance to perfect his technique. He’s got time though, and he’s learning fast.

“I’m serious, I won’t let you kill him.”

Okay, maybe not fast enough but Vergil’s stand down posture is just a few degrees shy of his round two stance. Dante watches carefully, eyes on Vergil’s sword hand, and gets ready to jump into action the second something changes. He’s not used to being the cautious one but he’s learning, for Nero’s sake.

Verge’s fingers twitch, subtly of course, but Dante sees it. Delicate bones shifting under pale skin, tendons tensing, but it’s not a move for his sword. Vergil doesn’t have nervous ticks, never had them, but this is pretty damn close.

“Yes, you’ve made that clear,” Vergil says, fingers straightening out of a curl, “and I need to do research on this.”

Called it.

Nero’s stand down posture’s nearly the same as Vergil’s just a little more exaggerated, he drops more weight on his right, overbalances, then resettles himself. He’s still not used to a normal arm again but he’s good with the recoveries. Vergil's the same way.

“Guess I’ve got an assistant til you figure this out,” Dante suggests, casually, like he’s just thinking about getting out of work. Which he is, always tryna duck the job, but he’s feeling things out.

He’d give V a place to stay, earning his keep or not, but he wants to hear what big brother’s gotta say. And, he wants to know if he should give V a proper weapon to defend himself. Not that he could last long but he’d probably last long enough for Dante to bust in and save him.

“Generous as always brother,” Vergil murmurs, huffing his I’m-almost-amused Vergil-huff and Dante counts it as a win.

V’ll be fine until Vergil figures out what his deal is, and in the meantime, Devil May Cry gets to be a true-blue family business. Morrison’ll love slapping that on the charter. They’d probably be able to charge more, and people might trust them to do a good job. After all, who the hell else would drag actual family into this mess? They’ve _gotta_ be good.

Or, they just really hated their family…maybe both.

“I will contact you when I have information,” Vergil says, unsheathing Yamato again but it’s lazy. There’s barely a sound as the blade slices through reality and not even a backward glance as Vergil steps through to wherever he’s going.

Then, there were two.

“So, you two plan this out?” Dante asks into the silence Vergil leaves behind.

The sun’s still blinding and not very hot, and the street’s still kinda deserted. It’s still only them out here and Dante wouldn’t give a shit if it wasn’t. Their family's so god damn weird and it's not like they're talking about powerful, demon summoning weapons. They're just sorting out an unexpected child acquisition. 

“Ugh, let’s head inside, I gotta call Nico,” Nero grumbles, rolling his eyes when Dante wiggles a hand from where he's sitting. He _could_ just get up and Nero growls under his breath when Dante _doesn't_, but the kid still stomps over and drags him to his feet. 

It’s nice having family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante was so hard to write for me because A) what is a Dante? and B) his sense of humour is terrible


	4. World's Okayest (coolest) Uncle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante adjusts to living with another person again, V is a pseudo-bronephew, Lady puts in an appearance, and Shadow's kitty tumby is more tempting than any stupid fruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: alcohol and binge drinking, mild references to gore.

Getting used to living with someone again isn’t as hard as he thought it’d be. There’s no awkward, sleepy collisions in the hallway or complaining about all the cleaning he isn't doing.V doesn’t care that he walks around in boxers half the time, because the laundromat is a whole ten minutes away, or that he spends most of his time reading magazines instead of actively searching for work, because it's easier to just avoid it. V hasn’t even tried to feed him a cup of <strike>possibly toxic</strike> coffee sludge and glared at him while he choked on it.

Maybe it’s cause it’s _V_. Not much seems to bother him, and if it does, he does something about it instead of stewing in silence. Like the pizza boxes.

Dante’s been making a tower of them for the three months he’s been back, just to see if he could. V took one look at those the first day of his official move in and promptly dropped his little hell kitten on the stack. Boxes tumbled, a civilization fell, and an unsettling number of roaches scattered. Dante watched from the safety of the main room, Nevan at the ready to summon some demon bats to eat the possibly demon roaches, but shouldn't have bothered. 

V's hell kitten went to town on that shit, shredding boxes and happily batting roaches until the kitchen started looking like warzone. He thinks the chicken helped, if squawking from the fridge while V calmly gassed the bugs that escaped counted. Dante didn’t even know they had bug-spray, couldn't remember buying any, but he stayed out of the way while V used it. In the end, the kitchen was close to sanitary again and V stuffed most of the cardboard confetti garbage bags Dante also didn't know they had.

Maybe _that_ was the passive aggressive threat. An overdramatic “_Do something before I go all out_” threat but Dante doesn’t think so. V’s got no problem speaking up. If something’s bothering him, like the devil arms kept out in the open with no protection, then he says it. Usually in some flowery, poetic way, but he makes damn sure it gets said.

He had a point about the devil arms though. Dante was used to living alone, being the only one around those things, and stronger than all of them. He never cared about unwarded arms until V pointed out his very mortal self and how easy any of those arms could kill him. And Dante…well, he might’ve forgot that things _other_ than Vergil might wanna kill V.

V’d fought through Red Grave and down/up the Qliphoth just fine but that was with three full sized familiars and Nero as back-up. At least two of those are out of commission right now, and one’s commuting from Fortuna, meaning V’s kinda vulnerable. So, maybe Dante overreacted and spent the weekend arguing with his weapons until they allowed him to ward them, so what? They’re all safe now, relatively, and V’s fine so that’s a win in his book.

And other than the arms, V doesn't seem to have a problem with anything else. Well, there’s less trash in the front room now cause V cleans sometimes. And there’s non-pizza related food in the fridge these days because V gets wilty if he doesn’t get his vegies. And maybe Dante’s been double checking the accounts to make sure the lights won’t cut randomly, cause AC’s great and V’d melt in the summer heat.

…point is, sure, things are different around Devil May Cry but it’s not cause his new roommate’s a whiny shit. Things are different cause Dante’s _considerate_ and trying his best not to fuck up his living space again. He really let it go to shit since Patty stopped coming by and Lady moved to a whole other state.

“Dante, may I have the key to Vergil’s library?” V asks a week and a half after Vergil nearly cut out his heart.

“Sure,” Dante says after a week and a half of not hearing from his brother.

If he’s gonna be an uncle, he’s gonna be a cool one. Even if the kid in question isn’t actually a kid and probably doesn’t count as offspring. V should technically be his _brother_ not his nephew, but he came straight from Dante’s beloved twin and the semantics are a headache.

So, V’s his other nephew, the goth one, and Dante’s the cool uncle.

“Knob sticks, you gotta jiggle it,” he says, fishing out his keyring without taking his eyes off his magazine. Because he’s the coolest uncle ever, and V’s an adult who probably knows more about Vergil’s mini library than Dante does.

And, if he summons a demon lord from hell, Dante totally gets dibs on it.

“Door too, just shove,” he adds, flipping a page in his new weapons catalogue. There’s a nice pair of desert eagles he’s been eying, and if he asks nice and pays nicer, Nicoletta might upgrade them for him. He’s been itching to see her work and how she stacked up against her grandmother. He's already seen her skill in Nero's prostheses and experienced it first hand with Dr Faust and Nicoletta's damn good but none of those things are guns.

“Thank you,” V says sweetly and Dante hums as he considers the trade-offs on the XIX’s six-inch barrel versus the ten-inch. Or if he should spring the extra bucks and hunt down a couple VII's for that adjustable trigger.

Choices.

He doesn’t really notice when V disappears or hear the door getting shouldered open. He’s lost in a wonderland of high-end firearms and their many customizable options. A few hours of flipping through glossy, well-thumbed pages is a nice, cushy bit of familiar.

Dante’s here, in his kinda shitty shop with spotty AC where everything’s the same as it was the day he moved in. He's in the place where the wallpaper's peeling and the jukebox doesn't always work; where the dartboard's tacked up in the back, and the drumset's covered in a fine layer of dust. He’s not in hell where things are actually a lot more beautiful than he thought they could be, between the eldritch plants and surreal geography.

His blood's not singing in his veins and sizzling on the ground when Vergil gets in a good hit and he's not fighting off the bombasts of devils that think they can take him and his brother.

There’s no relief thick in his throat, heavy in his chest, making it hard to keep up jabbering about nonsense and throwing out witty one-liners. Down in hell, he just wanted—wanted to stare at Vergil, take a second and smell the dumbass. Because Vergil was there, parrying his blade, cutting into his flesh, and smiling at him. Genuinely smiling.

Shit, are his eyes misty? Nah’s, probably the lights flickering, like usual.

Does he miss the underworld? Dante’s not sure. The place was different, kind of a mess, and full of hostiles for the most part, but it was kinda calming too. Easy to feed the bloodlust in his guts when everything wanted a fight, and easier to fight off his guilt when he could see Vergil right there. Fighting with him, right there, slicing an empusa to pieces, _right there_.

The underworld wasn’t _terrible,_ and he could’ve probably survived just fine, but they didn’t have pizza or sundaes. And they couldn’t leave Nero alone again. Dante knew the kid would obsess over it for a while, them leaving. He’d get mad then he’d get restless and finally decide he just wasn’t good enough to go with them.

Kid had an inferiority complex on him for sure but who didn’t these days?

Dante snorts as he flips back to the mark XIXs, they really are some sweet guns. They’ll never outclass Ebony and Ivory, not in accuracy, output, or sheer worth but they’d be a good second string. For fallbacks, these’d be great.

And he’s so used to sitting around for hours that he only realises the time when he decides to place an order and notices the clock. Three am, well shit, he’d blown right past dinner without even realising it. He was making an effort to stick to consistent mealtimes these days, because watching V eat his rabbit food by the counter was…kinda sad.

The guy’d just fold in on himself, shoulders up, head down, staring intently at his salad or whatever. Dante’d suggested he sit at the table and eat, relax a little, and V’d hummed something, nodding at his carrots. Next time he wandered into the kitchen, V was still leaning against the counter, bowl in hand and hair covering half his face. And it took maybe three days to realise V would only eat at the table if there was someone to share a meal with because sitting alone at a table for four was even sadder than eating broccoli by the sink. 

So now they eat together because it’s not as hard on his heart, but not tonight.

“Whoops,” Dante mumbles, swinging his legs down and cracking his neck. The pop and grind of his bones is gunshot loud in the silent room, drowning out the ambient sounds just long enough to be disconcerting.

Then it dies down and things are corpse quiet again. Except for the tick of the clock and the thump of his heart and the whirr of AC filtering stale air through the shop. The last bits of V’s rabbit food lunch are only just fading, a con of air-con, but it’s better than broiling in his own ski—wait.

He can smell lunch, not dinner, meaning V’s still holed up in Vergil’s probably illegal library.

The cool uncle would call it a night and just head to bed. The kid was an adult, he could take care of himself just fine, the cool uncle wouldn’t give a shit. Dante’s seriously failing the cool uncle thing.

Cause he gets up, cracks his old man back, and heads right for Vergil’s library. The door sticks, because of course it does, and him shoving is loud enough to make up for the knocking he doesn’t do.

And then, books. Shelves and shelves of books. Everything’s arranged within an inch of its life; the bookcases arranged into ruler straight aisles and the non-English labels slapped onto the shelves. There’s even an artificial kinda chaos about the way the throw pillows are arranged in the little reading nook in the back.

And Dante doesn’t remember giving Vergil permission to fuck around with his walls. Seriously, give him an inch and he steals a mile cause that thing’s set into the wall and it’s gotta be jutting out into the alley behind the shop and Dante should've supervised the renovation beyond clearing out the room. Cause he doesn't know where Vergil got the shelves or the fancy pillows with their fancy embroidery, or the glass topped table, but at least that’s V slumped over the nook so there’s that.

He can rip Vergil a new one when his dumbass brother gets back from wherever, for now his booted steps are loud in the quiet of Vergil's library. The creak of leather and _clat_ of his heels are gunshot sharp on the old wood in addition to being way outta place. He might suggest some carpet in here next time Vergil shows his face, but his brother probably likes the noise. Stops anyone from sneaking up on him when he's—

“Dante?” V mumbles softly, and Dante freezes, stops mid step. V's shuffling around, eyes blinking open lazily but already fixed on him. 

"Dante."

His name’s worn smooth in V’s sleepy mouth. There’s none of Vergil’s bitterness there, or his wary amusement. And Dante's not sure why he expected any of Vergil’s…anything from V who's slowly siting up and pealing his face away from a book. First he cracks his neck, a wet grind of gristle on gristle, then his jaw pops around a yawn, and he raises his arms to crack his back. It’s a whole production that’s just a little creepy cause V’s still one hundred percent human. Does any of that hurt?

Dante can barely move after he pops a good one out of _his_ back but here's V moving like he doens't have bones, looking like he's two seconds away from dislocating something. There's not even a bit of pain on his face though, which is all neat and put together despite the impromptu nap. His hair is half smooshed down, half sticking up in the back and lines creased into his cheek but V just looks artfully rumpled, kinda like a kitten. Dante doesn’t know if he’s jealous or charmed.

“C’mon Sleeping Beauty, you’ll break your back on that thing,” Dante says finally, after V’s done cracking every joint in his body.

A quiet hum is all the answer he gets and he really tries not to be awkward, he’s the _cool_ uncle for fuck’s sake. He should know how to talk to the guy he’s been living with for nearly two weeks, but he really doesn’t. Dante’s hasn’t got a clue. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have many friends.

He never knows what to tell people and doesn’t know what they wanna hear. Lady and Trish have stuck by him because what? Because he’s got a good heart? Cause he can take a beating and still manage a bloody, devil may care grin afterwards? Or was it the shared trauma? They're all ragged edges, each of them, but they've known each other long enough to work those edges smooth and fit into each other pretty well. 

Dante's not gonna claim he understands Lady and Trish or anything. Those two are still pretty unreadable sometimes. When Lady's got a job or Trish's off on another hunt and Dante's holed up in his shop, he can't say what motivates them. And when he's determined to play nice with Vergil and have a nice meal together, swords ready and waiting, they can't say they understand him either.

So, what does he say to his pseudo-brother/nephew who's like Vergil, but not, and who he's never had much of a meaningful conversation with? V's been living in his shop for the past week and a half and Dante has no idea how to talk to him.

“So uh, Vergil’s books're _that_ boring huh?” ugh he might as well throw a “_sport_” in there and accept his fate as a barbeque dad. He could see it now, socks and sandals and a grill he didn’t know the first thing about. Nero would get him one of those “_World’s Okayest Uncle_” mugs and Dante’d have to smear the kid all over the nice sidewalk.

“They are…varied. Weapons, witchcraft, human histories and demonologies, along with several other fields though I believe you would appreciate the recipe books,” V says, waving a hand off to the left somewhere and Dante blinks.

He expected about half of those, weapons and demons, that was all his brother ever cared about, but the other stuff is a surprise. He had no idea Vergil cared about human history, what with the whole “_Demons are superior_” thing, but he _had_ fucked a human once so what did Dante know?

Nothing apparently. His brother, who he hasn’t seen in decades, likes human things and cooking now, who’d’a thunk.

“I don’t cook, prefer having a roof over my head,” Dante tries to joke, brush it off and keep it _cool_. Though, he’s pretty sure V doesn’t buy it for a second. Those eyes are a different shape, different colour—_vital green instead of holy blue_—but they still cut right through him to the little kid that wants everyone to like him.

He’s not lying about the cooking thing, he nearly burned down the kitchen when he tried making his own pizza once, but that’s not what V’s frowning at him for. It’s the way he doesn’t know what to say, when he’s not in the middle of a fight or being legendary devil hunter Dante. He’s used to coasting by on forced charm, careful carelessness, and a lack of actual emotional bonding.

And now that he wants to try, he’s shooting blanks…wait no, not like…he’s _drawing_ blanks. He's not old enough to be shooting blanks.

“I did not—that is ah, these are Eva’s recipes…comparable to Eva’s recipes,” V struggles to explain and Dante’s brain tries to blank before it can process that.

But shit, those eyes really do see right through him and pin him to the wall. V’s face is crumpled into something that’s either uncomfortable or constipated, but he doesn’t look away. If they’re counting in emotional maturity, V’s probably the old man between them cause Dante sure does feel like a kid right now.

Eva…Mother. Mother’s a whole cerberus sized Pandora’s box of trauma with a bleak bit of hope at the bottom and Dante’s never touched it. He locked Mother away in his head, in his heart, with big heavy chains and twelve-digit passcode. And he will never open up that box because all the nasty’s fermented into something toxic and vile over the years. If he lets himself think about Eva, more than her last words to him <strike>her dying request</strike>, Dante knows it'll end with copious amounts of alcohol, copious amounts of blood, and him spilling his guts. Maybe literally. 

Dante won’t do it, even if V stares a hole in his face.

“I believe he wanted to mimic her cooking to be closer to her, ah though I could be wrong,” V trails off, finally glancing away and Dante slumps. Feels like another sword got yanked out of his chest, or a cane. A very nice cane with details along the handle and a tip sharp enough to slice through demon hide.

There’s a lot to unpack there but Dante’d rather throw out the whole suitcase. Talking wasn’t something they did in this family; it was either fight or spar or kill shit together. Talking wasn’t for them.

“Yeah well, he better not scorch my walls,” Dante mutters, trying to make it a joke, forcing it to be a joke. And V doesn’t call him on it, or look at him again, so maybe he’s successful.

Or, V’s just tired. He does take a while to get up, pushing with a hand against the bench and the other wrapped tight around his cane. There’s a tightness around his mouth as he goes, almost like pain, but Dante’s not entirely sure. Maybe he should offer some help?

V’s never asked for it, gets around just fine without him, but it could be a pride thing. Hell, he came from Vergil, it’d definitely be a pride thing even if V’s way more sensible than his brother.

“Indeed,” V says, “shall we to bed?”

The cool uncle might suggest a couple of beers or something, a late-night bender, with greasy fast food and soda to chase. Dante _might_ be the lame uncle then because all he wants is to get V in bed and wake up to a nice breakfast of not pizza.

“Yeah sure, Mr Poetry, lead the way,” he says, letting V get out ahead of him, and hanging back just long enough to shove a couple books on maybe the right shelves. Whatever, if Vergil asks, he’ll say he did it for a laugh.

And he offers his arm when he meets V in the hall, a silent question that V answers with a hand around his bicep. They don’t talk about it, because they’re Sparda, but Dante helps V to his room, because they’re Sparda and there’s not many of them.

And screw it, he’s the _coolest_ lame uncle.

* * *

Some days, when he’s feeling like Vergil, Dante likes to sit and brood over the people he’s lost, like Nell. She never should’a died like that but he can’t really think of any other way she’d’ve wanted to go. In her shop, surrounded by her creations, _and_ getting the last word on him? Not a bad way to go out.

Dying in her store because of a man she trusted though, because he got involved in shit he should’ve left alone? Not ideal. And she had a family.

Tony never knew that. He thought old Nell was just that, old Nell. She was a gunsmith, good with her hands and better than everyone else. Ebony and Ivory handling everything he could throw at them for about two decades? What a testament to her workmanship.

And now, he’s got her granddaughter who doesn’t look much like her, picking through his stock for parts.

“They’ll be a work of art, just you wait and see,” she’s telling V, who’s elected to sit away from the pile of guns Nico dumped out on the floor. Smart choice.

It’s probably a safety hazard to have weapons scattered in the front room like this but he’s never really been big on safety. Besides, anyone desperate enough to come barging in during yet another summer heatwave can ignore whatever the hell’s going on in his front room.

“I’m not tryna tell you how to do your job hotstuff, but I’m pretty sure breaking the handle doesn’t make it shoot faster,” Griffon sneers imperiously from V’s shoulder, and Dante snorts.

He’s still got a magazine perched in front his face and his feet up on the desk, but he can’t help peaking over at the three twenty-somethings on his floor every so often. Nico’s in her element, guns and related parts organized in a neat chaos around her crossed legs, only occasionally poking Nero for a tool. Dante doesn’t exactly know why Nero’s here but there he is, cleaning out Blue Rose and pilfering pieces from Nico’s piles for his own devices.

V’s probably there for the company, as far as Dante figures, because he’s sat nice and cushy against the couch with his nose buried in another one of Vergil’s books. He could sit _on_ the couch but nope, he’s on the floor with the rest of the kids. And, unlike Dante, V doesn’t pretend he’s not listening to the conversation. He’s got one of those signature, mysterious smirks curling across his lips right now, and a medium-sized hell kitten in his lap, but he’s part of whatever’s happening on the floor.

Dante’s _not_ jealous at all.

“Oh, so you’re a gunsmith now?” Nico sneers, reaching over to flick Griffon off V’s shoulder. Nero laughs, catching the little bird easy, and plopping him on the floor.

Dante wonders if this counts as a playdate…is he the adult supervision?

“Hey! Watch it lady, I can still fry you,” Griffon grumbles but no one points out a balloon could give a worse zap than him right now. A month in Devil May Cry, and a little more since his rebirth, and Griffon’s still a tiny puff of feathers.

He can fly the length of the shop, buzz up the stairs, and flop at the top because he’s too tired to move. Dante’s found him there, getting harassed by Shadow, a couple times and been _kind_ enough to carry him back to V. Sometimes he gets thanked, sometimes he gets zapped, depends on the day.

Shadow’s growing though, a lanky lap cat now, with limbs that don’t always work together, and a tendency to pounce at Dante’s feet. She…tolerates him these days, not enough to be pet but enough to not trip him on the stairs and send him crashing to the floor. V says she adores him.

“Sure, you could little chickee, and you’d make a real nice appetiser too,” Nico says, attention clearly drifting away from Griffon. She’s got a slightly battered mark VII in her lap with its twin in pieces in front of her, adjustable triggers and all.

Dante doesn’t know where she got the pair of them when he couldn’t even get them off the catalogue, but he knows better’n to ask.

Nicoletta’s a real gunsmith, even if she only works on commission these days, and she’s bound to have her people. Gunsmiths always do. Connections, contacts, less than legal backdoors that open up if they go pounding hard enough. Tony Redgrave used to play errand boy for a couple of ‘em and nearly got his nuts shot off a couple times so he knows how it goes.

Most gunsmiths wouldn’t work out in the open like this, or in a stranger’s place, but Nico’s very different, as he’s come to realise. She’s adaptable, always challenging herself. Apparently she taught herself how to work with demon bits and Dante has to admit, he’s impressed. Working off someone else’s research or not, that’s not something just anyone could do.

But there she is, Nell’s granddaughter, customising a pair of pistols for him because he wants more out of them than a human could get. He almost feels twenty years younger, almost.

“Might hafta file the powder for a good kickin’,” Nicoletta mumbles, and Dante huffs. Nell never talked to herself like that or let anyone pilfer things from her stock.

She worked alone and silent, always too focused on her newest project to care about anyone around her. Dante kinda wonders how she ever taught a rambunctious kid like Nicoletta must’a been, but he doesn’t ask.

He listens instead. To Nico’s random, contextless rambling, and Nero’s half-frustrated, half-amused replies whenever he understands whatever she’s saying. They keep the place lively and the dust from settling. And of course there's V sat between them and behind.

He's been keeping himself busy with lunch at Nero's and super secret driving lessons, with Nero, that he doens't think Dante knows about. The lessons, not the lunch. He heard all about the lunch from Griffon who insisted he hated those lil brats, completely despised them, and couldn't wait to go see them again. 

Dante doesn't know why V didn't ask _him_ for driving lessons but it's not like he's hurt or anything. Nero's a better teacher than him, patient, and Dante never even bothered to get a fake license. He doesn't know how to drive and Cavaliere is a devil arm, thus, she doesn't count. Nero was the better choice, and Dante gets it. V wants a chance to hang out with his brother, psuedo-brother, whatever, all by themselves. _He_ still wants that with Vergil to this day. 

So, Dante doesn't care about the lessons, but he is kinda offended V never came to _him_ about fake id's. The one Nero got him is alright, it'll do, but Dante knows some guys too, he could've helped.

“The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing, alive enough to have strength to die,” V quotes, and Dante makes a soft noise. He recognises that one.

Vergil, yeah Vergil used to read his poems out loud too. When Dante wanted to play and Vergil didn’t, he’d start shouting lines to drown out Dante’s begging. And Dante can’t say he knows any of those poems by heart, doesn’t even know their names, but he recognises that line.

“Your eyes on me rove over tiresome riddles of years ago?”

Dante’s got no clue if those are the right words but they rhyme and sound almost right and V’s smile is a patented “_well done Dante, you surprised me”_ smile. Except, it’s nicer, less sneery; it's an actual smile and it’s nice. He feels all fuzzy inside for remembering something from so long ago.

“Close,” V still says, cause he’s still a lil shit.

“Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove, over tedious riddles of years ago,” and he corrects the line without looking at his book. Just like Vergil, but without the “_foolish_” tacked on.

Dante counts that as a success.

* * *

Coming back to Lady perched on his desk eating his pizza’s not the worst thing he’s ever come home to. There’s not even any blood smeared on the floor or scorch marks on the roof, definitely ranking in the top ten best welcome homes.

“You didn’t tell me he was Vergil’s kid too,” she says, accuses? Dante's not sure which and his sigh is heavier than he wanted, right.

Well, they’re still in the top fifty and she’s not yelling, yet, so maybe he can salvage this.

V, because who else could Lady mean, isn’t anywhere Dante can see, and the baby gang isn’t anywhere he can sense either. They’re not in the shop, or the street, and V’s weird human-but-not scent’s a couple hours old at least.

Either V left before Lady got here, he left after she got here, or she ran him off, and Dante’s not sure which’s most likely. As far as he knew, Lady didn’t have anything against V when they were climbing the Qliphoth, but she also didn’t know what he was then. And in the few months he’s been back, Dante never really got around to explaining.

He’s been too busy running interference between his asshole brother and his stubborn best friend who can barely stand each other.

“Must’a slipped my mind,” because playing dumb’s a strong point of his and Lady hasn’t figured out a way to kill him yet.

Still, he’s careful as he walks across the room, and her eyes never leave him. Her gaze isn’t heavy, for once, so she’s not accusing him of anything but she doesn’t look away. Not when he leaves his coat on the rack or when he unhooks his strap so he can leave the boys on their peg.

She doesn’t stop him taking a slice of pizza, because it’s _his_, but her frown means he definitely can’t avoid this one. He’s going to have to talk about this like an adult.

“You didn’t have a problem with Nero,” he points out, and promptly inhales half the slice. He didn’t get a chance for lunch today and no matter how many times Vergil says they technically don’t need to eat Dante’s stomach still demands food.

His brother can go on subsisting on fancy tea and dewdrops or whatever, Dante will happily lick the grease off his cheese and dive in for seconds. Which Lady also lets him have because she's nice like that.

“Nero’s fine, he’s a less obnoxious _you_ from twenty years ago,” she scoffs and Dante can _totally_ salvage this if…he doesn’t tell her the truth.

If he doesn’t tell her, then Lady’s not gonna have a problem with V. She’ll just accept that Vergil fucks and runs and add being a terrible father to the laundry list of bad shit he’s done. V can be Nero's half-brother in her eyes, the one that lucked out and got more human than devil in him, but still fell into the family business. Things can stay the same and be just fine. All Dante has to do is omit a few glaring truths.

Like when he took her to the Qliphoth and got jumped by something none of them were ready for. He should’ve told them his suspicions back then but telling Lady and Trish would’ve meant Vergil really was back and he wasn’t ready to open that can of worms yet. And just look how great that whole mess turned out.

They all lost a month, he lost two swords, and about a quarter of the guilt he’d been carrying around for a decade and a half. And, in the end, it all worked out. Nero didn’t have to kill his old man, Dante didn’t have to kill his brother <strike>again</strike>, and everyone’s still alive. He even got to visit the underworld without fighting any demon kings.

So, he can leave out some important things <strike>again</strike> and wait for it to all go to shit then blow over, or he can tell her now.

“and V left to take a walk, so I thought, you and me could have one of our famous heart to hearts before he gets back,” Lady says and this is it. Make or break time.

She’s got her back to him and she’s relaxed, fingers covered in grease instead of on her gun, because she _trusts_ him. Lady trusts him with her back, and she trusts him not to pull a weapon on her, and she trusts him to tell her what’s going on here. Because they’ve been partners so long and she deserves to know, right?

Right.

“Urizen and V were Vergil, he split himself with Yamato but got better, and they went away. Now V’s back, Vergil doesn’t know how, and Urizen’s MIA,”…yeah, that’s…Dante barely finishes before Lady spins around and pins him with a _look_.

Not a Vergil (or V) “_I see right through you Dante_” kinda look but it’s close, it’s more “_Dante what the fuck is wrong with your family?”_ with a dash of “_I’ll do it, I **will** kill Vergil_”.

Dante, who’s very glad he _isn’t_ Vergil, still slumps down, shoulders drawing up so he can almost avoid Lady’s stare. He dare not look away because that might start her shouting but he tries to be as small a target as possible, and still eat his pizza. His stomach doesn’t give a shit, it’s hungry.

His chewing’s pretty loud between them, since there’s no words, and Lady’s breath is deceptively steady. She’s…processing right now, he hopes she’s processing. Because demons are fucking strange, demon magic is fucking strange, and demon swords are fucking strange.

There’s no rhyme or reason or explanation for half the shit that goes on in their lives and honestly? Dante’s too damn tired of asking questions that never have satisfying answers.

Where do his clothes go when he devil triggers? Where do his devil arms go when he’s not using them? Pocket dimension? Can he go there too? Just climb right in next to Giglamesh and Nevan? Sounds pretty ideal, might get him out from under Lady’s unrelenting stare.

“So, V is Vergil?” she asks way too calm and uninterested sounding for comfort. He’s almost afraid to answer her.

“Yeah, kinda? He was then but he’s V now. His own man,” and Lady nods, brows furrowed, but she doesn’t say anything. She just hops off the desk and heads for the kitchen leaving Dante with half a pizza.

He’d ask if she’s alright but stupid questions only get stupid answers, so he stuffs his mouth with delicious pizza instead. And, when Lady comes back with two six packs and another box of probably cold pizza, he just shoves everything on the desk into a drawer. Now it’s all mixed up and he’s got no idea what’s in there but it’s better than the floor.

Lady doesn’t say a word when she hops back up, stealing the last piece from his box, and replacing it with the new one. They don’t have to speak, their heart to hearts are famous for how many words they don’t use.

And how many beers they can drink before they’re shit faced.

* * *

“You’ll hurt your back sleeping here,” someone tells him, someone Dante’s sure he knows. There’s a click, a snap of flesh on flesh, and a rush of demon energy that prickles all along his spine, but Dante doesn’t think he cares.

Everything’s nice and fuzzy and not too complicated, caring would just kill his buzz. He just wants to lay in his chair for the rest of forever.

“I’d ask you not to attack but I don’t think you’re in any position to,” the someone says, voice quiet and secret.

Then _woah_, he’s up. Something’s got him, lifting him up-up, way too high, and that’s got his eyes flying open. First he sees the ceiling, way closer than it should be, and then his own flailing limbs as something gets a better grip on him. And, when he remembers how to make his head turn, Dante looks down where he _should_ be.

Vergil, there’s Vergil on the floor, looking up at him. What’s Vergil doing back? And what the hell is he wearing?

“Nightmare will take you to bed,” Vergil says, except that’s not Vergil’s voice. Vergil’s voice isn’t a low secret, it’s like his; Vergil’s voice is the one in his head saying he’s a let down and a deadweight and wholly responsible for Nelo Angelo and Urizen.

And the Vergil sounding voice is always right because what kind of terrible brother doesn't recognise his twin? 

The person down there isn’t Vergil though. Hair’s too white, posture’s too weird, and the voice is wrong-wrong-wrong. Who’s that then? Nero? No, Nero’s off with his family, and he doesn’t wear black.

The something big starts moving and Dante scrambles for a handhold until his fingers sink into the skin of whatever monster this is. Oil? feels like oil, slimey and wet and not exactly solid. It feels **_awesome_ **on his back, like one of those fancy beds, even if there’s claws under his back. He can feel them rubbing uncomfortable through his shirt, where’s his coat?

“And I will take Lady,” the someone says as the big thing carries him away.

Dante shouldn’t let it, Lady’s back there with the guy who’s voice he knows but can’t place. He shouldn’t leave her, she’s his partner and he’s gotta have her back. But he’s too drunk to move much. They had…beer, shit beer, and then Lady got the good stuff delivered. The good-good, and they drank, and drank, and V still wasn’t ho—

“V,” Dante sing-sanged, pitching his voice up just in case V can’t hear him. One thundering footstep starts on the stairs.

“V,” he yells as they climb another step. There’s a creak and a groan and then another step. Step by step they go and Dante wonders what’d happen if the stairs collapsed under them.

“Yes Dante?” V says, low and secret V. He’s close, behind them? Dante can’t see, and the thing’s holding him strange, he can’t peak over its head-shoulder either.

“You’re not Vergil,” he says as seriously as he can because this is important, he thinks. Something about that is important, to him and Lady.

“You’re not him anymore, you’re you, and you’re a Sparda,” he forces past a yawn, then another yawn, and jeeze, why’s he so tired? They’re real close to bed though, almost to the second floor.

Ohh, he’s missed his bed. When he was down in hell and when he was running around today. Dante just wanted to finish all his jobs and get home to his nice, king sized bed with all the pillows. He can’t wait to sleep for hours. Days even.

“Thank you, Dante,” V says even quieter than usual. Lady’s sleepy mumbling is louder than V’s thank you but Dante accepts it anyway. It’s more than he gets from Vergil.

“Nooo problem kid,” is the last thing Dante mumbles before he gets tossed into his pillow pile.

* * *

When he wakes up, the world’s a hazy, soft, dream-thing that Dante, quite frankly, doesn’t mind. Sure the sun’s slanting right into his eyes and he’s kinda overheating in all the pillows but it’s nice here. He’s in a nest and too sleepy to appreciate his hellish hangover.

Too bad he’s gotta take a god damn piss. Cause that means fighting his way out of his nice pillow nest and waking up enough for the impending headache of doom to split his skull wide open. _And_ that means getting up on stiff legs and feeling his way across the hall because the sunlight _hurts_, alright, it hurts.

Even when he’s careful he still ends up slamming into the wall, falling through the bathroom door, and nearly cracking his head on the cabinet. Other’n that though, he’s doing great, and having his piss.

Afterwards he seriously considers going back to sleep; his scraggly beard and bloodshot eyes definitely want him back in bed. They’re saying “_Go to sleep Dante, everything will be better after a mini-coma_” although last time he had one of those, the human world nearly ended. He’s also too hungover to be human right now but he’s hungry, the kinda hungry that’s annoying and won’t stop till he chokes down _something_.

Just his luck that his bedroom stash ran out right before his job yesterday so his bedroom is seriously lacking in the snack cakes department. If he wants food, and he definitely wants food, the kitchen is his only option. Well, he could order pizza, but the delivery people refuse to come upstairs and slide it under the door. So, kitchen.

Lady’s there when Dante finally drags himself downstairs, led by his grumbling stomach. He thought she would’ve gone home…somehow. He doesn’t remember last night too good. He remembers drinking to not talk about something and tequila, a lot of tequila.

Did V get in? Dante doesn’t remember and doesn’t know where he is now either. Whatever, V’s an adult, he can go wherever he wants without asking permission. If there’s trouble well he’s still got that golem of his, he should be fine. He took out those witches easy peasy, even if Nero did nearly bust a blood vessel. V's a big boy and he's fine.

“Morning,” Lady grunts when she spots him in the doorway. Her voice’s rough around the edges and the bags under her eyes are darker than he’s seen in a while, and Dante feels kinda bad about that.

Lady doesn’t drink much, only does it with him when there’s shit neither of them want to talk about. What didn’t they want to talk about last night? Something with Vergil or was it V? Dante really doesn’t know anymore; he just knows his mouth tastes like warmed over ass and they’re getting too old for this black-out drunk shit.

They used to be able to shake this off no problem. Lady would be gone in the morning, or she’d be eating food she ordered and put on his tab. _He’d_ be fine and steal half of whatever she was eating and their best hangover cure was whiskey in the coffee.

Judging by the smell of whatever’s in the mug she’s got, some things don’t change.

For now, he joins Lady at the table and lays his cheek against the cool wood. Does nothing for the headache or the sour taste in his mouth, but it’s something. If his cheek’s smushed into the grainy old wood in his crummy kitchen then he’s not actually dead. The afterlife would probably have carpets that matched the drapes and a metric fuck ton more demons.

“Yeah,” he says, the most he can around the gong-bong-banger of a headache. 

Then again, maybe death’s a forever hangover with no coffee because Lady refuses to share. She doesn’t even break under his puppy dog pout and Dante sniffs, things really have changed.

“Afternoon,” V says sometime later, days later, minutes later, Dante doesn’t know. He’s becoming one with the shitty wood grain and sulking.

“I bought lunch at Mary’s, the line was despicably long,” V continues and Dante registers the rustle of plastic bags about the same time the smell hits.

If his moan sounds like something out of a C-list porno, he doesn’t give a shit because Dante officially loves V best. He’s going to write up a will and he’s going to leave everything to V because V bought him lunch from his favourite Chinese place. No one’s ever done that without heavy begging and him paying.

He would slaughter legions for his pseudo-nephew/brother.

“She asked about dear Uncle Dante and I told her he was at death’s door,” V says as he hands over noodles and pork and…cherries?

Dante squints at the plastic box and the dancing logo man slapped on the side. They’re from the grocery down the block from Mary’s, V buys his rabbit food there. Dante’s personally never been but his fridge has shelves full of their shit and he knows they’re too fancy for his blood. V’s never asked him to eat anything of theirs before but what the hell.

He’ll slaughter legions _and_ he’ll eat cherries for his favourite pseudo-family member.

“She said those would help with the hangover,” and Lady snorts, already stealing half the fried rice. Huh, Dante doesn’t think he’s eaten a cherry not covered in whipped cream but first times for everything and what not.

V shrugs, clearly doubting the power of cherries as a hangover cure, but doesn’t dwell on it. Or actually, V smooths out his expression into something aloof and neutral, because he totally doesn’t care about the cherries. He bought them because they were on sale or something, caught his eye when he was buying his lettuce for the week, and vaguely remembered what Mary said.

He didn’t go out of his way to buy them for Dante, perish the thought. And he’s absolutely not stealing glances as he sets out the boxes and a couple plates, V’s not watching Dante, what would make someone think that?

Dante snorts and pops a couple in his mouth, crunching the pits and all, it’s not bad. V, who’s not watching him, smiles but it’s definitely at the little hell cat stealing his chicken. Sometimes V’s so much like Vergil, Dante wonders how he didn’t see it the first-time round.

Cause V’s…hmm, V’s the way Vergil was when they were kids. He cares about people and tries to take care of them but he tries so hard to hide it because—because what? Dante never did figure that one out, he’s still working on Vergil the original and has no idea where things stand with V the second.

“Watch it fuzz ball,” Griffon caws, appearing in a puff of smoke and feathers, and Dante swears when needle-sharp claws sink into his wrist. He drops his chopsticks, and the pork he was trying to eat, and Shadow pounces.

She snatches up his pork and hisses when he tries to at least pet her. Lady snickers and V focuses very hard on his book and Shadow, the hell beast on high, enjoys her well won prey. And Dante’s sooo not jealous when Shadow finishes off the pork and stalks over to Lady’s plate but doesn’t attack _her_ hand.

Shadow sits back on her haunches and waits patiently for Lady to pick out a shrimp from her rice. She doesn’t even snatch it and run, the beast graciously eats it right out of Lady’s hand and lets her chin be scratched. Dante’s _not_ jealous.

And he’s _not_ getting maudlin. He’s just hungover and trying to wrap his head around his newest family member. The one that reminds him of his eight-year-old brother and his nineteen-year-old rival and his fifteen-year heart ache. There’s differences, definite differences, but there’s so many similarities too, and Dante really doesn’t wanna be the one to ask how much of V is…V.

He likes to read but that’s all Vergil ever used to do. He learned to read before Dante, even though mom taught both of them at the same time with the same gentle patience. She took her time sounding out the words and teaching them the rules and never got frustrated at all of Dante’s stupid questions. And in the end, Dante can read just as good as Vergil but he never liked to do it, and now. Now all fancy books and reading remind him of is Vergil and the years they never had.

…yeah, well what else is there? V’s got that limp and Vergil would rather die than be caught with a _limp_. Verg’d say it’s a weakness, a visible, exploitable weakness, and Dante’s not ready to touch that particular insecurity. He doesn’t think V minds it as much, he doesn’t try to hide it, and he can fight just fine, so he probably doesn’t care.

Does it mean anything that V’s bad leg is the same one Vergil snapped right in two? Is that how this works? V gets all the lasting damage from Vergil’s life cause he’s the “_weak_” human side? Doesn’t seem fair to Dante but shit’s never been fair, they’re probably lucky a bad leg’s the only thing V’s got.

Well, a bum leg and three familiars that are a little _too_ familiar. Griffon, Shadow, Nightmare. Are they real deal come back for round three or is it something else? From infernal generals to babies? Dante had suspicions the first time around, when he woke up and there was a huge fuck off bird in his face, crackling with lightning like _another_ huge fuck off bird.

He had his suspicions the first time V swaggered into his shop with his cane and his guile and his promises of Vergil being back. Then, while they fought through the Qliphoth that first time, and V summoned things Dante fought on Mallet island, **_the generals_**, he wondered. Mundus hated humanity, despised them, but…but maybe…their lives were already so fucked. Dante thought that V was maybe Mundus' kid, or his spy? 

He's not sure what he thought V was to Mundus but there was a connection in his head. Between the former king of hell and the mysterious new client he knew nothing about. The similarities in servants was too uncann—

"Shit!" he yelps as Shadow pounces and steals his pork, again, and Dante stares as she runs back over to V looking happy as a clam. Lady snorts then she laughs and Dante hopes she chokes. V’s nice enough to keep his snickering hidden behind his book and Dante’s leaving him _all_ the devil arms.

“You tryna get mugged?” Griffon scoffs then he squawks when Dante nails him with a grain of rice.

“Shut it chicken,” he growls, and gets up to eat over the sink.

* * *

He can’t sleep. No matter how much twisting and turning he does, he just…can’t sleep. There’s too much buzzing in his head and too much grinding under his skin.

Vergil’s been MIA for two months and Dante doesn’t know where his brother is. He wants to think it’s fine, Vergil left the underworld with him, he did that. Dante didn’t have to drag him fighting and bitching through a portal, he didn’t have to knock out his big brother and lug him home. Vergil climbed through the hell gate **_with_** Dante.

He said he was fed up of hell and the underworld and all the demons constantly trying to worship him. Didn’t say anything about the ones trying to defeat him though because those were fine. Sometimes they even put up a half decent fight and Dante got to fight with his brother again.

Vergil was King, technically, but he didn’t want the kingdom so he came back with Dante. He’s gotta remember that, keep it tucked in close behind his heart. Vergil came back because he wanted to, and he wouldn’t go looking for a way back into hell without Dante. Not without Dante.

“Kinda late for dinner,” is the only thing his brain churns out when he finds V in the kitchen at three in the morning.

V who’s got flour dusted on his very black shirt and chocolate sauce on his cheek and a wild look in his eyes that Dante can relate to. It’s three in the morning and neither of them could sleep. Dante came down here looking for cold pizza, maybe a beer or two to take the edge off. V came out to make something, Dante’s not sure what but with all the dirty pots out, he thinks it might be a three-course meal.

“Or early for breakfast,” he says as a glob of butter drips from the spatula V’s still holding over his head.

Shadow’s out and about, dusted in flour too, and she twines around his bare ankles until they’re bloody. All her little spikes are razor sharp and ever since she learned, or relearned, that he can heal just fine, she's been offering affection with a side of ouch. She doesn’t react to his glare and just purrs happily when he shoves her away with a foot. V still says she likes him but Dante’s pretty sure this is all payback for killing her twice.

“I…wanted to try one of Vergil’s reconstructed recipes,” V explains, trying for casual like the kitchen isn’t war zone full of crockery casualties. Dante doesn’t really give a shit. V cleans up after himself and even if he didn’t, Dante can clean for once.

There’s something to be said for a clean living space, something he forgets most of the time because what’s the point? Everything gets dirty again anyway, what’s the point of caring and trying when it’s just gonna get fucked up again anyway? He was stupid for thinking it could work out, no he wasn’t, yes he fucking was—shit.

“Need some help?” he offers before he starts thinking thoughts he can only drown out with alcohol. He’s too old for that shit.

He’s too old to second guess himself and not clean his damn shop and care whether or not his big brother loves him. What’s it matter? He’s made it this long without Verge hanging around, he can keep on keeping on.

“I don’t—I can’t ah, I,” a frustrated sigh that Dante feels at the back of his own throat and V flings the spatula at the sink. Water pitches up, butter smacks the wall, and V limps over to the table so he can throw himself in a chair too.

“I thought he remembered—that he _knew_ more than me, but the recipe is _wrong_, and **_Vergil_** was wrong.”

And Dante doesn’t know if V sounds more bitter, frustrated, or exhausted, maybe it’s all three mixed and mashed into something raw and aching. Dante knows the feeling. The ones that are so convoluted and overwhelming that the only thing to do is sit down and drag shaking fingers through his hair. To pull and yank because at least the pain’s something else to think about.

Most nights, when he felt like that, he’d go out and find a bar to fight in. Some place that didn’t mind selling to an underaged kid, and later, didn’t mind letting him drink way more than he should. He’d drink until the alcohol burned in his blood and he actively had to keep his liver choked down instead of vomiting it up on the floor. Sometimes he couldn’t even manage that and he’d get kicked out.

He didn’t used to go home even after that. He’d be too disoriented and tired and plain depressed to bother. Besides, there was always a nice, convenient alley to pass the fuck out in.

V…maybe isn’t that bad yet, he’s covered in flour and chocolate and bits of batter, not his own stomach acid, so that’s good. He’s surrounded by six bowls of batter and a kitchen full of dirty dishes instead which maybe ain’t better. And something tell him V doesn’t need to drink a sea of liquor to drown himself in poison.

“What were you trying to make?” Dante asks, taking a couple hesitant steps closer. He doesn’t think V’s likely to start swinging, or call up his Nightmare, but he should be cautious right?

V’s got a hand buried in his own hair, fisted in it, and his knuckles are creaking with how hard his hand’s clenched there.

He’s never seen V so strung out, eyes unfocused where they’re staring off into nothing, jaw set in a painful pout. There’s bags under his eyes again, angry purple bruises worn into his skin, and his cheeks look sunken, sallow maybe. He nearly looks as bad as he did at the end of the Qliphoth climb, when he was breaking down and falling apart.

Dante automatically starts looking for that again. Any cracks anywhere? Any skin flaking away because V’s human body was never meant to last and now it’s giving up the ghost?

No, nothing Dante can see. Just exhaustion and frustration wearing themselves into his face. 

“Pancakes, Moth—_Eva’s_ pancakes. The first recipe in Vergil’s book, I thought he perfected it,” V says so low _Dante_ has to strain to catch it. He can hear a gnat fart two streets over, but he can barely hear V.

That’s probably the point though. V nearly called Eva “_mother_” and Dante didn’t realise, or well, he didn’t think…he didn’t think V thought of her like that. He didn’t know V had memories of her beyond whatever Vergil wrote down in his books. He didn’t know because “_you didn’t ask”_ the nasty lil voice in his head sneers, and thanks peanut gallery, exactly what he needs right now.

V doesn’t look up when Dante reaches the table and he doesn’t say anything when Shadow hops up next to him. His eyes are locked on the far wall which isn’t very interesting but he’s staring like someone carved the secrets of the universe into the peeling paint.

“Well, not even dear brother Vergil can be right all the time,” Dante shrugs, reaching over tentatively, moving glacier slow, “and ingredients change all the time, I have to get used to new pizza tastes a couple times a year.”

Shadow on the table doesn’t pounce at his fingers and V doesn’t stop him so Dante takes that as the go-ahead to wrap a hand around V’s skinny wrist. He’s careful, of course, because V’s bones feel impossibly fragile under his palm, delicate almost.

Dante could make a fist and break all those finnicky little bones, he might not even notice, and that’s…a thought. He’s never touched V before, not skin to skin like this, and it’s a weird reminder of just how mortal V is, even more than Lady and Nero. He’s also surprisingly warm, running hotter than all the humans Dante’s touched, nearly as hot as him and Vergil. And V’s still completely human, not a bit of demon in him.

Then Dante packs that thought into his “_For Later_” box and carefully coaxes V’s hand away from his hair. He’s probably going slower and softer than he needs to but he doesn’t want to hurt the guy. V stubbornly doesn’t move for all of three seconds before he uncurls his tight-locked fingers and sets his hand on the table, and Dante lets go just as slow.

Skin on skin contact’s is…it’s rare for him these days. Not many people he lets in close enough to touch and the ones he does aren’t really the touchy type. So, he relishes that little brush of skin, then retreats.

“Tell ya what, I’ll get someone to deal with this mess and we can go searching for the exact ingredients Mom would’ve used,” Dante offers.

He…he still can’t—no, he doesn’t _want_ to think about her. He’s got her picture on his desk and he’s got her last words engraved on his bones but it’s still too much to think about his mom on his own. When he’s alone, he starts to second guess and doubt. Was her hair really as golden as Trish’s? Did her voice sound the same? Were her hugs as soft and nice smelling as he thinks and was her food really the tastiest thing in the world?

Dante doesn’t know, not anymore, because it’s been decades and he doesn’t have anyone to ask. Vergil’s been gone so long and when they got the chance to be together, their mother’s the last thing they’d ever talk about. There’s too much baggage there, and rage and hurt and grief.

V though. V’s different because he’s not Dante’s brother and maybe he blames Dante for their mother’s death too but he hasn’t _done_ anything about it. During the whole Urizen thing, V nearly stabbed him with the Sparda but he didn’t. V put it down, dug the tip into the dirt next to his head instead, and they’ve never talked about that.

Dante doesn’t hold it against him, doesn’t even care. Everyone’s stabbed him, Nero, Vergil, Lady’s shot him, Trish’s fought him, shit Dante’s stabbed _himself_ so V’s actually better than all of them. V has never hurt him, even though it would’ve been so easy then, and V won’t hurt him now.

“We ah, we don’t have transport,” V says, fingers twitching as he reaches up to slick back his hair and Dante huffs a laugh. And here he was thinking Verge never had any nervous ticks. V’s hair flops back in his face the second he pulls his hand away again but there’s a tired smile tugging at his tired lips. His black hair’s too long to sweep back without gel, unlike Vergil’s.

Dante considers V’s answer as Shadow hops up on the table and winds herself around her master’s wrist. She’s about the size of a small bread now, a teen cat instead of a baby cat, but she's still too cute to resist and loves to lure people into traps like that. Blink those big ole eyes, mew all cute, and show her belly until someone reaches in to pet her then she's all spikes and razor edges. Someone is mostly Dante, sometimes Nero and once Nico, but never V, the biased little shit.

“We’ll take Cavaliere,” he says and Shadow flops onto her back, exposing her soft belly to him which is a _trap_. Dante knows better than to fall for that cutesy shit _again_ and keeps his hands to himself. V pets her stomach instead as he thinks, eyes still so far away, but the tightness around his mouth is gone, jaw unclenched. He’s thinking about Dante’s offer.

Which he’s serious about. So what if it’s three in the morning? Some place has gotta be open and if it’s not, they can keep looking until they find one that is. Finding the specific ingredients is gonna be the tough part, Dante doesn’t know where to start with that, but they’ll figure something out.

“We could do some research online, about popular brands from thirty years ago,” V murmurs as Shadow starts purring. Dante hums, yeah sure, there’s a couple internet cafes in town that he’s not banned from yet.

“And we can both taste the food, to be sure,” V adds, finally dragging his eyes away from the wall. He doesn’t look at Dante but that’s fine, so long as he’s not staring into the ether.

“Whatever you want, V,” Dante promises, reaching out quick as lightning and petting Shadow’s belly. Then he books it out of his own kitchen before the hell kitten can attack.

He’s gonna pay for that later, when she decides to retaliate by scratching his desk to shit or something, but it was completely worth it. Because he got to experience the purest heaven of a warm kitten tummy **_and_** because he can hear V’s startled little giggle just before Shadow starts yowling.

Later, he’ll regret, now, he sweeps up his phone and dials a number he will also regret but it’ll be worth it.

“Hey Patty, I got a favour to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah Dante, you're trying and that's what matters. We love you because you never give up <3
> 
> ALSO!!!! There's art for this fic now! [V's infamous baby squad](https://ariebearz.tumblr.com/post/188286441233/tyger-tyger-burning-bright-inspired-by-a) was created by the incredible Arie Bearz and y'all should definitely check it out for not only incredible cuteness but also a look at V's new outfit.


	5. O Brother, My Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero's always wanted a family, people who understood him and liked him. He had one with Kyrie and Credo first, was content with that, but then he lost Credo and got his kids, and that was a whole new family to get used to. One where he's the dad er father figure and the responsible one and the one who reads bedtime stories to help the kids get to sleep. 
> 
> Then Nico showed up, crazy, out of her mind Nico, and she's like the weird cousin he never thought he'd want. He'd say sister but that'd swell her head. Then a father, and an uncle, who he...who he wants to know and understand and have some kind of relationship with. 
> 
> And now, now he's a brand new brother.

When Dante calls him and says “_V’s back, I need your help,_” Nero has no freaking idea what to think.

V’s back? He’s _back_? How is he back? Where’s Vergil? Is Urizen back too?

Then Dante says, “_and could ya pick up some pizzas from Rizolli’s on your way over? I got a standing order_,” and Nero wants to beat the idiot’s face in again.

Dante doesn’t offer up an explanation or tell him what the hell’s going on, he just tells Nero to get pizza because of course he does. Nero’s just a glorified delivery boy. Even if he’s the reason Dante and Vergil could go frolicking in hell. Yeah, his _ass_.

But Nero does what Dante asks because he’s a push over with a good heart, according to Kyrie. He wants to help out, even if the person he’s helping is his good for nothing uncle that never bothered mentioning their relatedness until it was convenient for him. Or the person’s some weird avatar of his father who also didn’t mention their relatedness at all. He helps because they’re family and Nero knows how to treat family.

He calls Kyrie right after, because he’ll always call her, and tell her that he needs to stay out a little longer. Then he tells Nico shit’s up at the shop and V’s back and can she please just pick him up after and not bust in, this could be a trap. Nero’s paranoid, Nico’s always complaining about it, and he’s not gonna rule out Dante needing help but saying it in code.

So, Nero shoves over and slams the brake until Nico agrees to **_not_** follow him into the shop and come pick him up only when he sends her an all clear text. He also gets to her to pick up the stupid pizza, because she’s _generous_ like that.

They weren’t too far out when Dante called so they don’t spend as much time backtracking as Nero wishes they could. He needs time to process and start on a game plan, and Nico says he needs to chill the fuck out and get the details first. He almost tells her where to shove it but he bites his tongue and scowls at Dante’s pizzas instead; because she’s _right_. He _does_ need the details before he does anything bold and brash. Shit.

Nico drops him off, with heavy complaint, but she’s not going to follow him. She’s just gonna go off and find something to do in the city, catch a nap maybe, and wait for his text. Hell she might even call Kyrie and complain about him benching her. Whatever she’s gonna do, she still drops him off on the corner instead of the front the shop so he gets a few extra minutes to think.

He should be using that time to pump himself up, get ready for a fight if there is one, but he doesn’t. Somehow he convinces himself Dante’s just playing a weird prank, it’s gotta be a prank. This is just his weird, whacky uncle finding a new way to invite him for pizza night, and he believes that right up till he walks through the door and drops the pizzas because shit…it really is V.

It’s V when Nero sits and eats Dante’s food, because like hell is he not going to eat Dante’s food, and he shares it with V too. And it’s V telling him goodnight and goodbye when Nico comes to pick him up after dinner.

“It really is him,” Nero mutters when he climbs into the cab and Nico swears herself red, then he tells it to Kyrie when he calls her to say he won’t be home till tomorrow. He’s got that itch in the back of his brain telling him shit’s gonna sour by morning. Which it does. Saviour it goes ass _up_. 

Vergil and Dante are fighting hard by the time Nico rounds the corner, Nero can hear the _sching_ of demon metal and taste the sulphur of devil sword Dante. They’re not fucking around and Nero won’t either. Nico scoots the van into the alley behind the shop and Nero flings himself over the building with his wings to land in front.

The twins are so preoccupied with each other that neither of them sense him till he’s got his claws sunk deep in the leather of their jackets and dragging them ass first out the door. Inside V looks paralysed, eyes wide, lips open on a word Nero doesn’t get to hear because it’s his turn to play distraction. He keeps Dante and Vergil focused on him while Nico sneaks in, gets V, and gets out.

Then Vergil disappears off into the ether, <strike>again</strike>, because Nero won’t let him kill his humanity, and Dante doesn’t make a move to stop him so Nero follows that lead. Even if his stomach goes queasy for a second, thinking about how easy it’d be for Vergil to leave for good, <strike>again</strike>. He’s already got hoards of devils roaming through the city, desperate to worship him as King, how hard’d it be to just go with them and rule?

Nero’s not sure but Dante doesn’t look concerned so all Nero does is sigh, and help his lazy shit uncle to his feet, and head into the shop to wait for Nico to bring V back.

The same V, not a different one, comes stumbling out of the van somewhere around sunset and Nero has to face facts. It’s V, back again. He’s wearing different clothes—_a shirt_—and his demon posse are pint sized now but it’s the same V that Nero fought through Red Grave with. Who’s his…relative.

“Nero just invite him for dinner,” Kyrie sighs, dumping another load of laundry on their bed to sort through later. Nero will help her with that, he’s missed the last two washes cause he got called out, but he’ll help her with these.

In fact, he throws the phone he’s been glaring at on the bed and jumps up. He’ll help her right now.

Kyrie’s eyes are heavy on his back, but she doesn’t say anything else which Nero appreciates. He still needs time to wrap his head around this whole…_thing_. The whole “_V’s back and holy shit that’s a whole ass relative_” thing. Dante didn’t have anything insightful to say but he’s letting V stay at the shop. Nico has a lot to say but Nero doesn’t consider any of it insightful; it’s mostly swears and wild conspiracy theories.

Kyrie leaves him folding clothes, footsteps light as she heads downstairs to get started on lunch, and Nero’s hands shake the second she’s gone.

He doesn’t drop the jersey he’s holding, one of his, but his fingers are trembling so bad and his throat _aches_. The doctor, who was absolutely stunned, theorised even with his arm back his brain could still get mixed up and make him feel phantom pains in his very much there arm. If he’s stressed, if he’s worried, if he’s tired and not resting, his brain could misfire signals and make his hand ache; like right now.

Because V’s back and Nero doesn’t know what to think, how to react.

When Dante and Vergil got back from the underworld, Nero started a fight with them. He cracked three ribs and sprained his wrist, but he managed to wipe that stupid grin off Dante’s face and made Vergil stumble. Nero made them see _him_ and not some punk kid for all of five seconds but that was enough, for then it was enough.

Things have been quiet since then, no demon kings or cults fucking around with devils. Sure there’s demons that come through trying to challenge Vergil for his “kinghood”, and some who pass by trying to worship him, but he always scoffs and runs them off. Or sics Dante on them. He said he had better things to do than rule the underworld, like get his hands on Dante’s account books.

Nero still has no idea how, whenever he asks Dante starts to sulk and Vergil gets way too smug and no one tells him anything. He’d complain but the shops turning a decent profit now and Vergil billed him as the Head of the Mobile Branch _with_ a bonus. Customers started respecting him after that, and Nero likes it. And he likes the weird, semi-routine he’s got with his father and uncle.

Nero’s got a fam—no, no he _already_ had a family with Kyrie and the kids so he can’t say he’s got one now. What he’s got now are blood relatives who mostly treat him like a rowdy brat, but he can deal with that. Vergil’s still an asshole, even if he offered sword lessons with Yamato, and Dante’s still a jackass but Nero’s got a standing invitation to Pizza Night so the twins aren’t as bad as they could be.

No one’s said sorry for anything, but Nero never thought they would. Things are…good, they’re okay; work’s fine and the orphanage is doing well, and Nero’s hands are still shaking.

“Shit,” he mutters.

The shirt slips from his grip and he lets it go, focuses on breathing instead, on the curl of all ten fingers into his worn rough palms. Everything is fine, it’ll be _fine_. V’s back, so what? Nothing wrong with that.

Weird shit happens all the time around here. Nero lost an arm and regrew it just as quick, the phantom pains are just something that’ll pass in time. Dante and Vergil disappeared into the underworld and took their sweet time coming back, but they’re back and that’s all Nero can ask for. And now V, the physical embodiment of his recently discovered father’s humanity who paid Dante to defeat the physical embodiment of his father’s demonic essence and was unmade when Vergil was remade, is also back.

If he ever has to think a sentence that fucking weird again, his brain might break, and that might be the family motto. Which V fully embodies because he’s…family.

“_Perhaps your older sibling_,” was what V said he might be and Nero’s not ready to process that. He’s still dealing with being the grandson of the Saviour and the nephew of the Legendary Devil Hunter. The father thing is a whole other level of dealing and Nero leaves it alone most of the time.

Now there’s a whole new person thrown into the equation, a confounding variable he never even _considered_. Actually no, scratch that. V’s a variable Nero hasn’t thought about since he was a kid because a sibling? He’s always wanted a sibling. Wanted one so desperately he’d pray to the Saviour about it and he hates praying.

Nero loved Credo and Kyrie, _loves_ them, but he used to be so jealous. And most of that petty envy’s gone now—_just like Credo_—but he’s still kinda wistful.

What would it be like having someone who understood him? Someone who didn’t just write him off as some punk kid with a chip on his shoulder and nothing to call his own? Another person who was just as lost and scared and terrified of the demon in their blood maybe taking over and ruining the little bit of happiness they managed to carve out for themselves.

Nero wanted <strike>wants</strike> that so bad, So why the _hell_ did he want to fling himself through a wall when V suggested it? Why the fucking is he shaking and freaking out when he should just finish folding the clothes?

“Nero, Kyrie says she needs you to go to the store,” Julio shouts and Nero snatches up a pair of pants. He hides his hands in them as Julio comes in with his nose in a comic and a twenty in his hand.

“She wants a loaf of bread and tomatoes,” Julio says, barely glancing away from the page, and Nero’s glad for once. He’s lectured the kids about that before, getting so wrapped up in things that they don’t notice what’s going on around them, but he’ll let it slide this once.

By the time Julio _does_ look up, Nero’s got his hands working right again. They’re good and calm as he takes the money and don’t falter when he picks something from the clean pile to put on. A vest is good for home but he’s not gonna get caught in the store with one; Vergil wears a vest, a fancy vest, but it’s still a vest and Nero doesn’t need to get heckled about it.

He’s not sure who could heckle him in Fortuna, there’s no one here who’d know Vergil, but he’s paranoid, sue him.

“Anything else?” he asks when he’s presentable and Julio’s back to reading.

“Mhmm, she said you should invite V for dinner this Friday, and that you’ll tell us who V is after lunch,” Julio adds, rolling his eyes and pulling off the arrogant “_duh_” expression only preteens can, without getting smacked across the mouth for it.

Nero sighs, then groans, and pockets the cash, right. Sometimes he forgets Kyrie can be ruthless and isn’t afraid to pull out the big guns. She knows there’s no way he’d hide something like this from the kids, they’ve had _conversations_ about this. Talked about the kind of guardians they wanted to be back when they first considered looking after these three.

They were kids too then, barely legal adults, but the island was wrecked and no one else wanted to take responsibility for three extra mouths. Kyrie had always planned on working with the Order’s orphanage and Nero was a sucker for anything Kyrie wanted, and for people that needed help. It wasn’t really a question of yes or no, it was more “_holy shit, how’re we gonna pull this off?_”

Together, apparently, and by talking a helluva lot about their strategy. Bedtimes were negotiated, punishments were heavily discussed, rules and chore schedules written up monthly, and where the kids could and couldn’t go without supervision was heavily discussed with the kids themselves. Nero had considered not telling them about his demon hunting, once, way back at the start, but he nixed it just as quick as he thought it.

He couldn’t lie to the kids, he _wouldn’t_ lie to them, but he knew better than to give em info wholesale. He had to tone that shit down cause they were _kids_. Kids didn’t need to know demon’s blood tasted like gold or what three broken ribs felt like; kids deserved stories where people beat the demons and saved the day and got the girl, or guy.

Worked fine so far, except the part where he lost his arm for while and they could _see_ that, otherwise though, it’s been fine. They’ve even met Dante, and Vergil, so V shouldn’t be a problem. It’ll be fine.

“Uh well we’ll see, he might have things to do but I’ll give him a call,” Nero promises because he’s been got. Kyrie got him, now he has to call Devil May Cry and invite V to dinner at their house.

…how would V even get here? Last time he used a helicopter but that was pretty one time-ish, huh. Well, however he does it, Nero’ll get to ask over dinner.

* * *

Dinner on Friday turns into lunch on Sunday and includes Nico who generously offers to drive to the shop to get V. Nero wants to be mad about that. He wanted to ease into whatever this is, figure out how he to act with V and how to act as the go-between for V and the kids. This was supposed to be a test-drive, acclimatisation or whatever.

Nico’s another confounding variable and Nero wants to be _pissed_, but he’s not. He’s mostly worried, about V and the kids and the kinda questions he’ll have to muddle through. Nico will have her own questions, she always has questions, and the blue chicken’s back too and Nero seriously doesn’t know how he’ll deal.

Kyrie’s always telling him he worries too much and he’ll go grey before his time. She also always laughs when he bats at his hair, tugging on his bangs to check the white for silver. He only does it because it makes her laugh and he loves her laugh.

“The placemats are _fine_ Nero,” she says for the fifth time before promptly bustling him out the door into the garage. Nero doesn’t even try getting back in because he hears the lock click and knows she won’t let him back in without their guests.

He could probably scale the side of the house and slip in through the study window Kyle left open, again, but Nero sits out in the garage instead. He could do maintenance on Red Queen while he waits, give her a nice sharpening, but he leaves her hanging on the wall. Blue Rose could use a cleaning too, there’s some smut around the barrel he missed last time, but she stays holstered at his hip instead.

The garage itself is dirty again, cobwebs in the hard to reach corners, oil stains and tire tracks on the concrete floor. There’s a smudge of paint on the wall that’ll never come out and rust creeping across one of his metal shelves, and Nero’s glad.

When he got out of the hospital and back from the first fight with Urizen, the garage was spotless. Everything was cleaned, top to bottom, and he knows Kyrie did it. She never said and he never asked, but he knows it was just her. Nico would’ve spilled the beans by now and the kids aren’t great at secrets, but Kyrie never would’ve let any of them help her either.

After the coma, and his beat down from Urizen, he’d came back here with his tail between his legs. V had stayed in Red Grave and ordered Nero to go away and get stronger and Nero had planned on doing just that…except he couldn’t. Not that first night. He needed a prosthesis that could handle demon fighting and he needed to revaluate and regroup.

Nico had been planning in the van and Nero had come out here, sat on the bare floor and pressed his remaining hand against the cool concrete.

There hadn’t been a single drop, drip, or smear of blood in here then and he knew that shit got everywhere. Kyrie had what? Gotten down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the concrete bare? Dragged the shelving out of the way and unscrewed the brackets until she could get at the rough plaster?

Nero doesn’t know and he doesn’t know how to ask her but he’s grateful. She’s handled a lot of this way better than he has. Losing a limb, finding his blood relatives, advancing in the devil hunting business, and now a brand new uh sibling?

Is V his sibling? The kids think so. Nero told them V came from Vergil’s human half and wasn’t exactly like Nero and Carlo had asked if that made Vergil V’s dad too. Nero hadn’t known what to say then so he said yeah sure, why not?

“Yeah, why not Nero?” he grumbles to himself now, pressing both palms against the rough floor.

Kyle had jumped in with the obvious “_so he’s like your brother?_” question and Kyrie had laughed so hard she had to sit down.

Nero couldn’t even get mad at her—_because he can never get mad at her_—because he’d walked right into it. He blames V for putting the idea in his head. He also blames Vergil, just in general. Blaming Vergil for things is easy, it’s like blaming the government for the lack of gummy worms in the house. Cathartic.

In the kitchen, Carlo’s asking for apple slices and Julio wants to go hunting for berries after lunch and Kyle wants to go with him. Kyle’s always trailing after Julio these days and Nero can’t help thinking of Credo. He would follow Credo around like that, played games where he was a knight of the Order like Credo; Nero wanted to be someone Credo was proud to know.

Would Credo be proud now? Shit, Nero hopes so. He’s done his best, as best as he knows how, but he’s made so many mistakes too.

“Beep beep asshole!” Nico hollers, laying on the horn, and Nero rolls his eyes. She has a remote for the garage door, made it up herself with parts Nero paid for, she can just flip a switch but no.

Nico probably knows he’s in here, waiting for them, so she’s gonna make him work. Typical.

“You’re back fast,” he says as the door rattles away. Sometimes it sticks and sometimes he has to smack the bottom to make the thing move but the automatic door’s not half bad. Nico rigged it up and her eyes shine as it works perfectly for once, always happy to impress.

She eases the van into the garage, careful not to hit their shaky shelves, and judging by V’s death grip on the dashboard, it’s the most careful she’s been the whole trip. Nero can see the tense of his jaw straight through the streaky windshield and smiles. Well, at least they’ve got a fear of Nico’s driving in common.

“Traffic was pretty light,” she shrugs, and he knows that’s a damn lie. There’s always traffic coming out of the city, what Nico means is she didn’t get ticketed during her ridiculous, highspeed chase antics.

The van’s a bucket of bolts held together by hope and a prayer <strike>and magic</strike> and it can outrun police cruisers. Nero has no earthly idea how <strike>demon magic</strike> but so long as he doesn’t have to shell out bail money, he doesn’t care.

Nico jumps out easy enough, gives him a once over, then walks right through the door which isn’t locked anymore.

“Oh yeah, nice manners!” he calls after her, shaking his head, then it’s time to bite the bullet.

V’s struggling with the passenger door, and Nero can hear Griffon’s muffled voice offering advice. Bad advice. He decides to save himself another repair job and yanks the door open from the outside which catches Griffon mid “_just kick it Shakespeare”_. The chicken at least has the decency to look mildly sorry and V inclines his head in thanks, Nero guesses.

He’s okay at silent cues but he doesn’t have much to go off of for V. He barely knew the guy when the whole Qliphoth mess unfolded and didn’t know him much better after. Vergil told him once, during one of their sparring sessions, that he could remember everything he’d done as V and Urizen.

Visiting Nero in the hospital, getting half carried by him to the top of the Qliphoth, even the stupid conversations in the van. V was part of Vergil, he’s _still_ part of Vergil, but Nero can’t help but think the guy’s his own person too. He doesn’t know either of them well enough to make that call but he can feel it in his gut.

“So uh, how’s things…at the shop,” Nero asks awkwardly, stepping out of the way so V can hop down.

He comes cane first, same one Nero remembered from before, and how’s that work? V show back up and his cane was just there? And when he steps down, yup, limp’s still there too. Nero wonders about that, Vergil doesn’t have a limp but V does? Was it just a thing like the green eyes and different face?

“Interesting, Morrison assures me the shop is cleaner now than he’s ever seen it,” V says as he steps down and wow. Nero’s never seen Dante clean before, he didn’t think Dante knew what cleaning _was_ but new leaves flipping and all that.

“Guess the old man got fed up of the filth, good for him,” Nero shrugs, contemplating for a second before offering his arm.

He has no idea if V needs help like that and maybe he’s being rude with the assuming shit but Ms Cardenas down the street uses a cane and Nero’s helped her like this a couple times. She’s an active old lady, goes for walks with her pudgy dog and probably does more shit now than while her husband was alive but sometimes the cane ain’t enough. She told him once that stairs were killer on her knees and well there’s stairs into the house from the garage.

“He warded his devil arms,” V says, waving off Nero’s arm with a gentle smile. Soft even, way different than those half-smiles he’s always got hanging off the corner of his mouth. Nero doesn’t even feel like an idiot when he lets his arm drop by his side.

He does feel like an idiot when he gestures for V to head inside first, him following, and promptly trips on the stairs. V’s laugh gets hid under a cough but Griffon cackles all the way to the dinner table.

* * *

“What’s all those on yer arms Mr V?” Kyle asks halfway through dessert, after a painful introduction full of um’s and ah’s and “_okay so it’s like this_”.

Nero thinks he handled all the questions pretty okay. Sure V looked like someone slapped him with a frying pan when Carlo asked if he was Nero’s brother. And sure Nero _felt_ like he got hit over the head by a Behemoth when he said, with his own mouth, “_if he wants to be_” while pointedly ignoring Nico’s stupid grin.

There was probably an adult conversation they needed to have after dinner, privately, but V hadn’t said no. His cheeks had coloured a splotchy pink—_the same colour as Nero’s_—and talked his way around it without ever saying they weren’t brothers. He’d also talked around where he was from and how old he was and if he had any other family, other than the Sparda boys of course.

Nero stops in the middle of his cake, ready to divert Kyle’s attention, but V laughs and his nose crinkles when he does that, just like Nero’s. According to Kyrie, it makes him look extra cute when he laughs and Nero wonders if that applies to V now too. Somehow cute ain’t the first word that comes to mind for V.

“These are tattoos I use to bind my familiars,” V explains, putting down his fork and holding his hand out to Kyle, “Familiars are like my helpers, they keep me safe when I fight demons.”

Black ink shifts and swirls and Nero can feel the buzz of demon magic a lot clearer now, it’s like an electric hum in the back of his head. Veins of black race down V’s arm, circling his wrist, pooling in his cupped palm like a handful of shadow, then—

“Yeah, _we_ do all the work and **_he_** gets all the credit,” Griffon squawks into existence in a tiny floof of feathers and static electricity. The static is only strong enough to make the hair on Nero’s arms stand up and Nico’s frizz up like a cat’s.

The noise she makes when she realises is pretty cat-like too and Nero hides his snicker behind his collar. He doesn’t want the kids catching on and thinking playful assholery is the best way to show affection. For him and Nico it is, there’s no other way with Nico, but they need to be at least sixteen before he explains the ways of jackasses to them.

“A birdie! Bella uccellina, pretty birdie!” Carlo squeals, half out his seat before Kyrie can grab him, and Griffon launches himself into the air with a yell. V smirks, then he laughs, and Nero doesn’t hide his own snigger as Griffon circles the table.

Griffon got him out of the Qliphoth once, hooked inch long talons into his coat and flew him out of Urizen’s shitty throne room. The heavy beat of wings still creeps into his dreams every now and then; whenever he dreams about flying, it’s Griffon’s wings he hears. Now Griffon’s barely bigger than his hand, he’s a demonic tennis ball with a baby blue lightshow.

And V was a stranger Nero wasn’t sure he could trust. Some guy with ulterior motives, maybe human, maybe not, and now he’s eating dinner in Nero’s house showing off to his kids.

“Sì è, a very pretty bird, but we ask before we touch,” Kyrie tells Carlo, kissing the top of his head and holding her hand out.

Nero half expects the little shit to perch on the light and insult them from up there, mostly thinks Griffon will return to V’s tattoos. He’s floored when the hell bird lights on Kyrie’s finger like something out of a Saviour damned Disney movie. Kyrie’s definitely pretty enough to be the princess but what the hell kind of blue bird is Griffon supposed to be?

“Scusa birdie, can I pet you?” Carlo asks, already half reaching but stopping just short of Griffon’s outstretched wing. Across the table V’s doing a bad job at hiding his smile behind his hand, eyes brighter than Nero’s ever seen.

Julio looks like he wants to ask to pet the pretty birdie too but he’s got that brand new “_I’m a big kid now, I don’t care about baby stuff_” look on his face. Nero gets that, he remembers when he thought he was too old for cute things and liking stuff was lame. Now he knows better, now he knows baby animals are the freakin best, but not Griffon.

The only baby Griffon will ever be is a baby bastard and if he sticks around long enough, Nero’s sure he’ll grow back into a big bastard.

“Eh yeah sure, but no grabbin’, got that?” Griffon grumbles spreading his wings wide.

Carlo squeals in delight and gingerly pets Griffon’s puffy breast, oohing and ahhing when Griffon lights up for him. Show off. Across the table Julio’s eyes are huge and Kyle clearly wants to touch too but if Julio’s not asking, Kyle’s not asking. Nero’s about to say something, how it’s fine to like things, when V catches his eye and winks.

“Griffon isn’t my only familiar of course, I need a strong battalion to fight back hordes of devil scum,” V says so easy, like he doesn’t sound like something out of a weird videogame.

Will **_you_** join the fight against the demon hordes? Sign up today and get thirty free rubies.

Nero ducks his head and smirks but the kids don’t notice him, they’re too busy staring at the shifting tattoos again and V’s cupped hands. This time, the demonic essence is a low hum, base deep and thrumming, it’d be pretty if it wasn’t so damn disconcerting.

“Allow me to introduce, Shadow,” and the hell kitten roars into existence with a flash of claws and a plume of actual shadows. Or…is that smoke?

Nero’s smelt hellfire, Dante’s hellfire, but Shadow’s smells like thick ink and metal burning. Maybe she smells different because she’s a baby, or because she’s a different kind of demon to Dante, or because she’s more demon than him. Nero doesn’t know, but he does know she is the cutest damn thing to ever crawl out of the underworld.

She’s a tiny little thing, barely bigger than Griffon the demonic tennis ball, and Nero wants to hold her and never let go. Hard to believe she’s the same thing V used to eviscerate the tummy teeth guy and slice angelos to pieces and destroy Qliphoth roots.

“Can I pet him?!” Julio shouts as Shadow noses at V’s cake and takes the most delicate lick Nero’s ever seen in his life. Hands are already reaching and Nero’s ready to grab them but V waves him off.

“Yes you may, but be careful, she may startle and hurt you,” V explains, wrapping his hand around Julio’s wrist and guiding him towards Shadow. She cranes her neck to watch, staring balefully at the trembling fingers Julio presents to her, sniffs at them, then goes back to stealing V’s cake.

She doesn’t attack when Julio pets her though, letting V show him how to stroke the length of her spine. Then Kyle wants a turn, of course, and Carlo wants to pet the kitty too. Griffon flaps his fat little self onto the table and preens under all the kids’ attention, Kyrie and Nico’s too. Even if Nico threatens to throw him in the cook pot next time he mouths off to her.

And across the table, V is smiling soft and…tentative? Uh hesitant? Nero’s not sure, it’s like V doesn’t know if he should be smiling, if he’s allowed to smile at something like this. Nero gets that, he totally gets that.

Family, being happy? He never thought he’d have those either and he used to be so paranoid that everything’d get ripped away from him someday. He still worries that he’ll lose this one day. This little family of his, Kyrie and the kids, even Nico.

Rowdy dinners in a cramped kitchen, it’s almost too good to be true, and Nero understands.

“Hey, Vergil gave me that book you used to have,” Nero says casually, reaching over to scratch Shadow’s ear. V doesn’t react, not anyway that Nero notices, but he does pick up his fork again.

“Yeah, I figured you could have it back, I’m not really into poetry,” he adds, keeping it casual. Truth is, he kinda likes the book. He really _isn’t_ into the poetry, it’s too metaphorical for his tastes, but the illustrations are nice and Kyrie likes reciting it to him. The book is the first thing his father ever gave him, the first acknowledgement that maybe they could have a relationship.

At the top of the Qliphoth, Vergil didn’t have much. He had the Yamato, the clothes on his back, and that book. Nero didn’t think he’d get a single thing before they left but Vergil threw the book at him. The one that meant so much to V, the one he was always reading and quoting from, the one that…meant something to him?

Nero’s not sure how much Vergil liked the book, they’ve never talked about it, but still. The book’s this thing from Vergil, who’s back and not dead and not trapped in some crazy alternate dimension. Vergil has lots of books now, a whole library shoved into one of Dante’s old storerooms, and he’s given Nero other things but the book was the first.

Now Nero’s offering it to V, his pseudo sibling who already owns the thing. Nero’s really only returning it.

“I…remember that, Vergil wanted _you_ to have it,” V murmurs, not meeting Nero’s eyes.

And, he can…remember that? Nero didn’t think—hadn’t thought it worked like that. He didn’t consider V having Vergil’s new memories but then V must know what the book is. What it practically represents.

“And I want you to have to back,” Nero lays it out, plain as he can, “if I need it, I figure I can come borrow it.”

The way he figures—_and really freakin hopes_—is if V gets the book, on loan or whatever, then he’ll have one more reason to stick around. Nero might want it back someday, to page through or something, and V’ll have to be around to hand it over. That’s the logic he’s applying here. If V takes the book, he’ll be admitting he’s in it for the long haul or something like that.

V just said he remembered giving Nero the book so he’s gotta remember the significance of it. Vergil meant for it to represent their familial relationship, acknowledge it or whatever, now Nero’s using it to do the exact same thing.

He’s always wanted a brother after all.

“I would enjoy having it again, thank you Nero,” V finally says, another weak smile gracing his lips and Nero returns it with a confident grin.

They get to have a moment for all of three seconds before Griffon takes flight and tips over the decorative centrepiece.

“I said no yankin pipsqueak!”

“Mi dispiace tanto birdie! So sorry, please come back”

And Nero sighs as he snatches the vase up before the water inside can spill. Just another day in this circus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was so much fun to write. I only know the summary synopsis of the Before the Nightmare novel but from it, I think Nero's a pretty good dad to his adopted kids and I had to squeeze some of that in here. I also don't know very much about Kyrie but I figure my fic, my characterization :3


	6. Honey, I lost the V!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero swears a lot, forgets how doors work, and is ready to beat some serious ass while others forget to get their flu shot.

“Easy on the gas. I said easy on the—_Fuck!”_

Nero barely manages to yank the wheel around and avoid the tree when the van leaps forward. There’s a clatter in the back, something else falling out of place, but Nero doesn’t give a shit. He _can’t_. He’s gotta keep his attention on the van that’s still _moving_.

“Brakes! Hit the brakes V!” Nero yells, jerking the wheel before they hit a lamppost next.

Then he slams into the dash when the van hits a dead stop. The whole side of him just smacks, head, ribs, hip, and it sounds like a dead fish slapping on a counter. Well okay, he doesn’t hit _that_ hard, not hard enough to see stars, but it does punch a “_oof_” out of him.

And he lays there, half slumped against the dash, half falling out his seat, and just breathes for a sec. His heart’s jackrabbiting out of his chest, already halfway up his throat and he’s not sure it’ll go back down easy. He takes his minute to catch his breath, head hanging down, one arm wedged against the floor to keep him up.

Shit, that was…bad. He makes a face at the space under the dash, because there’s crusted over demon gunk there, then glances up at V.

V, who’s faced down demons and devils and quoted fucking poetry at them, looks utterly petrified right now. The angle Nero’s at gives him a good side profile and yeah, it ain’t great. V’s got his hands locked around the wheel, arms trembling with the strain of it, and his foot’s smashing the brake into the floor, which is good, but his wide, glazed over eyes aren’t.

He’s got that look, the one from when the devil bird chick was taunting him. If V could melt away into the seat, he probably would.

“I think we uh, we’re done for the day,” Nero says, trying to keep it light, even if his nape’s wet and his fingers slip when he reaches across to turn the engine off. He’ll worry about emergency brake and putting it in park later. Right now, he wants to make sure there’s no chance of them going anywhere in the time it takes to switch drivers.

V doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t even look around when he uses the back of the driver’s seat to pull himself back up. When he’s back in his seat and doesn’t feel like he’s gonna die in a car crash, Nero takes a deep breath and considers what the fuck he’s doing.

A favour? Yeah, he’s doing a favour for his…V, a favour for V, and doing a favour shouldn’t give him more anxiety than a training session with Vergil. His father’s an asshole who doesn’t know how to train people and doesn’t understand Red Queen is _not_ a devil arm. V’s a sweetheart in comparison and Nero is very conflicted right now.

“Listen, driving ain’t for everybody,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair and probably making it stick up weird but whatever. V nearly drove them into a tree, a light post, and almost backed into a railing, Nero thinks he’s allowed some weird hair choices.

He also think he’s allowed to feel a little bit vindicated cause he called it from the start. This is a terrible idea, even if V’s not Vergil.

V’s got all of Vergil’s memories and maybe his life experience too, but he doesn’t have the muscle memory or the fine skills. He’s not half bad with a sword but he can’t pull off some of those highly technical moves Vergil’s always laying into Dante with. V’s also great at demon magic, not enough to open hell gates and summon hoards, but he’s better than Dante. Which probably doesn’t mean much but still, he’s better than Dante.

He can cook, Nero’s seen it with his own eyes and eaten it with his own mouth, and V knows how to do laundry, and he’s not half bad at ripping out mouldy old carpets. He can do tons of things Vergil’s too stuck up to attempt and Nero likes his enthusiasm but this is…shit.

V’s crap at driving and Nero is so blaming Vergil for that one. His father’s never had to drive a vehicle at any point in his power-obsessed life, or ride in one, so Nero doesn’t blame V for not knowing what the pedals were for. Nero can deal, it’s fine, but he doesn’t think he could deal with V driving them head first into a wall or something.

—_That’s a lie, he could definitely deal with it and forgive V for doing it because V’s great and would feel so bad about it_—

“Perhaps you could explain the prindle again? And the…pedals?” V says but he doesn’t sound very enthusiastic. He sounds like a kid who got scolded by their favourite parent and wants to get back in the good books by being helpful.

Nero almost doesn’t have to turn to see that hopeful look, the big eyes and the grimace-smile, but he does and yup, there it is. Sure, on V it’s muted, not as obvious as any of the kids but it’s still there. Nero’s spent enough time with his pseudo-sibling to pick out the subtle shifts and tips in a mostly neutral expression.

V’s jaw is still clenched and his words end in tight little clicks, bitten off and left to bleed out. His hands are still curled around the steering wheel too and Nero knows if he checked, he’d find marks in the leather where V’s nails bit into it. His hair’s a mess too, falling in his face and stuck to his sweaty cheeks.

Saviour they’re losing it. They’re both devil hunters, they’ve faced down all kinds of dangerous shit, but a couple driving lessons have em jumping outta their skins? Dante would laugh his ass off if he ever found out then Nero would have to beat the shit outta the old man. To save Dante an ass kicking, Nero sighs, again, and tries to calm his thumping heart. 

“V, seriously, why do you even wanna learn?” Nero asks, like he should’ve last week when V asked for the lessons in the first place.

He’d been in the neighbourhood then, on a long call mission and decided to sleep at the shop after. Nico wasn’t with him that time because she’d taken a commission from her dad or something, Nero doesn’t have the details but it’s a big job and Nico skipped out on him for it. So, he’d stayed over at DMC for the night, too exhausted to make the drive back and absolutely not about to sleep on the pull out.

And Morrison had been right about the place, it was cleaner than Nero’d ever seen it, though jury was still out on _why_. Nico had money on Dante having a mid-life crisis and Nero put his bets on V keeping the place liveable.

Dante hadn’t cared when Nero staggered into the shop covered in demon guts and regular road grime, just pointed to the bathroom in the back. When he came back out smelling less like hot roadkill, V had invited him to dinner, an _actual_ dinner at the _table_ on _plates_ with _vegetables_. And afterwards, while _Dante_ washed the dishes, V had asked for driving lessons whenever Nero had the time.

And now they’re here. A week later in an empty parking lot just before sundown and no one knows where they are. If V kills them, Kyrie’ll be so pissed that he didn’t call ahead and Nico’ll be even more pissed because half her shit’s in the van. Vergil’d be happy though, the asshole.

No one’s—_Dante_—heard from him in three weeks though. Maybe they should start searching empty parking lots for Vergil.

“Licences can be used as a form of identification.”

Is so far from what Nero’s expecting he almost thinks V’s having a stroke, or he is. But he doesn’t smell toast and V’s got that little furrow between his brows that usually means he’s thinking hard about something.

Nero’s seen it a couple times before, once when Carlo asked V to play musical cows with him, and then when Nico asked how hard and long his cane was. Guess he can count this as number three.

“They carry your name and birth date and lend credibility to your status as a citizen,” V continues and Nero’s completely lost here.

V wants a licence because it’ll be id for him? Nero’s not sure V knows how the licencing office works, or how cars work. He keeps calling the gearshift a prindle, Nero has no idea what a prindle is.

Also, did V know he needed other bits of documentation to get a licence? A birth certificate maybe, another valid form of id to prove he actually lived—_oh_.

“V, you don’t need to know how to drive to get a licence, I know a couple people who can make one for you. Birth certificates and regular id too,” Nero offers because yeah, he knows counterfeiters and Saviour help him if Kyrie found out.

They weren’t…bad people, they just did a job. Mike had his kid sister to support and he made damn good fake id’s, Nero couldn’t fault the guy for making do. And sure Dox was kinda shady, kinda skeevy, but their work was always quality and they did a wider range of fakes than Mike. Kyrie wouldn’t care about that though, she’d just care about all the laws Nero was breaking, which was fair, and make him get rid of his fakes, which he wasn’t gonna.

He needed those, to buy the van, to operate as an independent hunter outside Fortuna, and buy beer. In his complete defence, it was the orphanage’s fault for losing his birth certificate, never replacing it, _and_ never giving him a god damn surname. He couldn’t get an id without a last name, not easily at least, and who the hell would believe was the grandson of the demon lord Sparda? People didn’t even know they guy had kids.

So Nero made friends with some counterfeiters and paid good money to get the documents he needed. He hasn’t visited them in a while, not since he went to Dox for a licence after he got the van, but they’ll remember him. And Mike’ll be happy to get V set up with a birth certificate, maybe a passport too in case they need one of those.

And Kyrie doesn’t have to know about it.

“Thank you, that would be very appreciated, but I would still like to learn,” V says after he has his think, and Nero bites his tongue on what he wants to say. That he’d rather go up against Urizen again before he lets V drive him anywhere.

If he was someone who didn’t care—_Dante_—he’d say that outright and not give a shit how it made V feel. Nero isn’t Dante though. He knows V’s making an effort here and Nero _did_ say yes, it’s not V’s fault he didn’t ask questions before they started.

So, he’s thinking of a delicate way of saying “_Not a snowball’s chance in hell_” when Griffon puffs into existence on the dashboard. He’s all gleaming gold eyes and a shed of neon blue feathers that Nico’ll complain about later.

“Vergil can’t drive, and V here wants to do things that Vergil can’t, to prove he’s an _individual_, capiche?” Griffon yells the last bit because he’s up in the air, winging it away from V’s swiping hand. Nero stares as Griffon swoops low, just beyond V’s closing fingers, then shoots back up on a crackle of static and darts out of sight.

“Just teach ‘im kid!” Griffon shouts from the back and Nero doesn’t bother craning around to see where. Nico keeps so much shit there it’s probably a fire hazard and Griffon’s small enough to fit anywhere now.

V’s looking like he wants to try ferreting him out though and Nero grabs his wrist before he can go. Geeze, and he thought V was the most mature one between the four of them. Looked like Griffon could bring out the worst in anybody.

“He ah, likes to tell tales, you know what a bastard he can be,” V scoffs, smiling nastily when Griffon throws out a “**_hey!”_** from the back. But hang on, no, ahhh Nero feels like a jackass for not realising.

_Vergil_ can’t drive. Nero _knows_ Vergil can’t drive, and that’s why V’s so terrible at it now but V doesn’t wanna be. He wants to be different from Vergil, his own man or uh his own half devil, and Nero’s being a dick about it.

Shit, he’s been comparing V to his rotten old man ever since he found out. The way V fights, when he’s using a sword, the way V flips his hair out of his face, even the way he walks, Nero’s been comparing all of it to Vergil. Which isn’t fair.

V’s his own thing now, none of them know how and Vergil’s skipped town over it, but V is V now. He’s not half a soul in a shit body, Nero thinks, and he’s not Vergil’s cast offs. No more than Griffon and Nightmare are still Vergil’s memories; they’re different and look the part and that’s why Nero hasn’t had a problem figuring them out.

V looks the same. Same black hair, same green eyes, same tattoos, the clothes are different but clothes change all the time. But Nero’s been looking at him and thinking about the weird guy that broke into his hospital room and the guy who saved him from an ass kicking and the guy that killed a demon king and became his old man. Nero hasn’t been seeing the guy that made Kyrie laugh with a stupid joke or helped Julio with his lit homework or even played assistant for Nico that one time.

V’s his own thing now, _not_ Vergil’s homunculus trying to right a soul deep wrong, and Nero needs to get that through his fat head.

“Look, if you wanna learn, I’ll teach ya but maybe we should start with the theory before we move to the real deal,” Nero offers instead because theory’s always good. Maybe not for him, he’s a more hands on learner, but V’s all about theory and there’s gotta be books about driving.

“We can hit the library and get you some books to start with,” he says and V visibly brightens. No more “_sorry dad, I didn’t mean to break the cookie_ _jar_” and no more “_I’m thinking so hard my brain is mush_” just plain ole V.

And Nero’s coming around to liking plain ole V more than mysterious ally V. No lies is nice and no cryptic half answers is even better. They’ve actually had a couple conversations, in person and over the phone, that Nero hasn’t had to second guess, it’s really great.

—_It’s everything he thought having a sibling would be_—

“I don’t have a library card,” V says but his half-smile’s a full smile now and Nero returns it with a smirk.

“You’re right, maybe we oughta pay my friends a visit first, pick you out an identity huh?”

And V’s grin is happier than Nero’s ever seen. It lasts all through them swapping seats and Nero backing out of the parking lot and onto the street as smooth as he knows how. The van’s been through literal hell and back down, not to mention Nico’s crap driving, but he takes his time with it. Someone’s gotta treat the rust bucket right.

They’re halfway down the street when V starts fiddling with the radio, switching through Nico’s presets, and turning onto the highway when he picks something. Then they’re five minutes in before V starts singing along to a song Nero’s never heard before. It’s…edgy is the best way he can describe it but V’s bobbing along to it, still grinning, and Nero figures it’s pretty damn good then.

“_Saviour, Bloodstained, Hellfire, Shadow. Heaven on a landslide._”

* * *

Fortuna summers have been pleasantly hot ever since Nero can remember, and he’s always been the freak who liked the heat, ever since he can remember. He liked sitting out in the shade just soaking in the warmth, like a lizard the other kids used to snicker, and he’d get in fights over it. Fights he’d win because nobody else ever wanted to mess around in the heat.

Now it’s summer again and he’s not in Fortuna but the heat on the mainland is about the same and Nero’s content. The heat keeps him loose, limber, almost melting but for totally different reasons than the kids and Kyrie. Nico says it’s cause he really is a lizard and Nero’s flipped her off every time.

Just because his devil trigger’s sorta scaly does _not_ make him a lizard, that’s not how science works. And if demons don’t follow regular science, and real scientists have proved that, then Nero’s never gonna tell her that.

V though, does not appreciate the heat.

“Can we postpone our appointment?” V asks for the third time and Nero feels for him, he really does, but no, they can’t.

“We can’t V, we already missed the last one,” Nero sighs as he cranks up the AC again. Damn thing’s probably broken or overworked, and it was halfdead when they got it too. Nico’s always saying she’ll take it away and service it, but she hasn’t got around to it yet.

She says it’s too hot to live without AC right now, she’ll do it when it’s cooler. Somehow Nero doubts that. When it’s cold, she’ll say she needs the heater to stay warm or something. Whatever Nico says, the clunking wheeze the thing’s making sounds like a death rattle. Nero would worry except the cold air doesn’t stop blowing no matter how low he cranks it so he figures they’re fine for the while.

Hopefully it’ll last them to the job then back because V doesn’t look like he can last too long in the heat, and Nero should’ve told him to stay home. It’s supposed to be an easy job, V doesn’t have to tag along as Nero’s back up just because Nico’s working on Dante’s commission.

And he’d tried that, got as far as “_Hey V?”_ before those calm green eyes fixed on him and V smiled his most charming smile. Kyrie says it’s the kinda smile she used to think demons would have, all charm and guile, to trick people and Nero fully agrees. V’s only claim to demonic fame is his familiar squad but he’s got enough devilish charm to give Dante a good run for his money.

It’s the smile V used the first time he tagged along on a hunt. Climbing into the van with Shadow twining around his ankles and Griffon on his shoulder, asking if there was room for three more. Nico had said “_yes_” like the crazy woman she was, and let V sit in the back while Nero worried in the front.

That first one wasn’t a tough hunt, just a run to clear out some Empusa. The second one wasn’t much either, a woman claiming her husband was possessed and demanding they do something about it. The demon in question was only half manifested, just some low-level thing piggy backing off the guy’s bad vibes to drag itself into the human world.

V actually took point on that one, pulling out his book and reciting some poetry while gesturing with his cane. Nero had stayed back, watching V walk back and forth, lashing out at empty air, before turning on the husband and cracking his cane over the guy’s head in one smooth move. And, when no one was looking, Nero stepped on the half-real demon leech that fell off.

They got tipped on that one and Dante laughed his stupid ass off.

And now, they’re off on V tag along hunt number three, sans Nico. Probably for the best, she’d just bitch about the heat and smoke them into second-hand lung cancer. Nero appreciates being able to breathe while he does a cool seventy-five.

Today’s client is a nun from an abbey three hours away from the shop in some sleepy town Nero’s never heard of. According to Dante, the sisters have been complaining of a demonic presence for decades but it’s only recently escalated into physical attacks.

Nero vaguely wonders if it’s got anything to do with Dante and Vergil and all their shenanigans in recent years. Cause if the thing’s been hanging around for decades, seemed pretty coincidental for it to only just ramp up the possession. But whatever, it’s more work for him, and he’s got V along to work the aesthetic.

The black leather, black hair, and black tattoos with silver accessories seriously sells the devil hunter vibe. Or uh exorcist, witch, devil even. Of all Sparda’s spawn, V definitely looks the part and Nero wonders if _that’s_ why Dante suggested the two of them take this one.

According to Dante, who Nero doesn’t trust not to spout bullshit, it’s more common to get called out by men of the cloth than regular people. Something about the allocation of bad vibes over the years wearing down the veil between the human world and the demon world. Nero wonders what the “_men of the cloth_” themselves would say about that little titbit.

Sending out the punk kid with a serious anti-religion streak and the goth kid who looked like he’d made deals with the devil—_and had_—has gotta be Dante taking the piss outta their client. There’s no way those nuns are expecting people looking like them and Nero’s almost excited to see those reactions. Almost, he does have to drive three hours to get there after all, not including the drive from Fortuna.

“How about some music?” Nero suggests when the quiet rattle of the engine and desperate wheeze of the AC gets a lil too loud. V doesn’t bother speaking, just hums and throws an arm over his eyes, to block out the unrelenting summer sunshine.

Eh, it’s fine. Nero likes a bit of peace and quiet sometimes, lets him get into the devil hunter zone. The soulful notes of John Denver crooning about country roads also helps, it’s good mood music.

And if he ends up belting along to the chorus then that’s part of getting into the _zone_. V doesn’t even chuckle, because he _knows_ about the zone and his smirk is completely silent.

‘s nice to exist quietly together for a while too. Whenever they meet up there’s always something going on. The two lunches Nero’s invited him to, the two jobs they’ve gone on together, even the camp out in the shop to poach gun parts from Dante. There’s always something going on, always someone else around but not now.

They get to enjoy each other’s quiet company for the hours it takes to get to the abbey. Nero keeps singing along to whatever country song warbles across the radio station and V pretends not to laugh at it. V likes edgy, new age metal, and Nero likes country, and no one else ever has to know.

By the time they reach the abbey it’s just past noon and the sun is beating down right over their heads but it’s…not hot. V climbs out, right into the sun, and is fine. He was ready to melt _inside_ the van, slumped over in his seat with his shirt off and just that new jacket of his, and now he’s fine?

Nero squints, confused, but V only shrugs. Well alright then.

He leaves V leaning against the van, Shadow winding around his ankles, and walks up the gravel path to the abbey. Ignoring the way it gets cooler and cooler with every step he takes till it’s nearly cold when he steps into the shadow of the building.

“Hello? Devil May Cry devil hunters? I’m looking for Sister Maggie?” Nero calls, banging on the door and squinting up at the second-floor windows. The place honestly reminds him of the Order’s Church, big and imposing and about as blatantly religious as a building could be. The open brickwork is even the same off-brown colour, do they all hire the same builders?

Maybe. Nero cocks his head, listening for any kinda sound on the other side of the door, but there’s nothing. Just the breeze whistling through the trees, just Shadow’s bass deep purr, and the hollow echo of him thumping on the door.

There’s not a single living thing around, just him and V, which means either Dante’s got jokes, someone called in a fake job, or something’s wrong here.

“Looks like no one’s home,” Nero says as he stalks back to the van, hands dug deep in his pockets to chase out the chill that is _not_ leaving him. It’s clinging to his neck now, prickling his skin, and it’s fuckin annoying.

“We can get lunch in the village or someth—V?”

Nero blinks, confused, because V’s…gone.

He does a full three-sixty turn, looking for V’s signature black everything, and there’s _nothing_. V’s not leaning against the van with Shadow, he’s not down the path, or lounging on the grass between the abbey and the forest.

Nero can’t _sense_ him. No human pulse in the back of his head, no smoky-shadow-oil tinge in the back of his throat. There’s not even a scent of leather on the wind. It’s like V never existed. Didn’t come with Nero and wasn’t ever here.

“V!”

The yell’s desperate, and loud, and Nero does another frantic three-sixty, hoping maybe it’s a joke. V’s here, he’s **_gotta_** be here. But he’s not.

“Fuck!”

Shit, Nero wants to run, his legs are itching to move, to do _something_ because V’s gone. He can’t do that though because he has no idea where to run. Something snatched V, hid their scent and snuck up on him, then what? Where’d they go? Into the forest? Back down the road to the village? Or shit, around the side into the abbey?

“Shit, shit, shit, _shit_!” he growls, sliding his arm into a punchline and firing the grappling hook at the abbey spire. Height, he needs height, to look around and see if he can spot anything out of place.

Not that he’d fucking know what’s out of place and what ain’t. He’s never been here before and didn’t bother looking it up; he didn’t need building specs to fight a demon. Saviour, he’s going to start doing that now though. He’s never going on another hunt without knowing what the place looks like.

His heart’s thumping painfully as the line reels him in and his feet thump onto the crumbling bricks. Up there he’s got height, he can see clear over the forest and down to the village, but there’s no sign of V. No spark of Griffon lightning or flash of Shadow blade. There’s not even a buzz of demon magic to prove V’s conscious and fighting whatever took him.

A breeze that’s fucking frigid whips across the treetops and tears at his coat, plucking and pulling, and Nero snarls. Should he trigger? His demon’s got better eyesight, hears better too, might be able to find a clue like that.

What clues though? There’s nothing for miles around and the roof’s empty except for him rubbernecking it.

“V!” he yells as loud as he can, takes a breath, cups his hands around his mouth and, “**_V!_**”

Nothing but his voice comes bouncing back at him, mocking and empty on the wind, and Nero’s stomach splats sickly on the ground. Oh Saviour. Oh _Fuck_.

He lost V.

* * *

Back in the van and he doesn’t know what to do. There’s no reception out in bumfuck nowhere so he can’t even call Dante for help and the abbey’s abandoned. Nothing inside but broken pews and candles scattered everywhere. Nero takes full responsibility for the broken pews, they were something to hit.

He even broke into the cemented over basement and found; seven pentagrams drawn in crusty blood, a possibly human skull that was way too small to be an adult’s, a nun’s outfit, and no V. Not so much as a sliver of demonic essence or magic either.

All kinds of weird shit and nothing? Either Nero was losing his mind and couldn’t trust a single one of his senses, or there was magic blocking him out. Both options sucked and he broke every single pentagram he found.

And now Nero’s back in the van, slamming his head against the steering wheel to make his brain **_work_** and figure this out.

V’s gone; where’d V go? Nero left for two minutes, _if that,_ and was never out of sight of the van. He’s got enhanced senses, way better than any pure human could ever dream, and he can’t pick up a single lead? Dante’s gonna kill him and Nero’ll gladly offer up Red Queen for his execution.

He stopped Vergil from killing V, good job, the best! And now he’s lost the guy in some fucking backend abbey three hours away from home? And yeah, Nero might be having a mild breakdown, but he thinks he’s fucking entitled.

What kind of Savior awful brother is he? He’s barely had the guy a month and now this? Shit, he’s worse than Dante and Vergil, and they’ve been beating each other’s faces in since they were kids.

He feels terrible, cold right down to his bones and that’s separate from the cold shivering down his spine. What’s he gonna tell Dante? Or the kids? They like V, think he’s so cool and Nero’s so lucky to have such an awesome brother.

The noise that grates past his clenched teeth is guttural, it’s pure frustration given sound. It’s irritated and confused and scared because he _lost_ his bro—

“Geeze kid, you get jumped by witches too?” Griffon’s annoying voice cuts in and Nero sits up so quick he sees stars before he sees electric blue feathers.

Then he blinks a couple times because what in the fuck?

“Why are you covered in jewels?” Nero asks, fighting with the window handle to get the glass down. Griffon’s just there, bobbing outside, and draped in strings of rubies, or some red stone. Nero doesn’t know, they’re red and they sparkle and—

“Where’s V?” he yells, throwing himself out the half open window and never once thinking about opening the fucking door. Nero’s on autopilot again, big brother mode, and Griffon has to dodge his snatching hand.

His heart’s pounding and his palms are sweaty, and he feels ready to throw up his stomach lining because Griffon’s here and it’s just Griffon. Bobbing so happy and trite in the summer breeze, like nothing’s wrong.

“_Where’s V!” _

Nero makes another wild grab for Griffon. He’ll shake the answer out of the little shit if he has to.

“Calm your tits kid! He’s fine!” Griffon yelps, diving and weaving out of reaching and the sun comes out. Light shines down and his heart trips over itself before starting back up again.

V’s fine? He’s fine!

“Him and goo boy are taking care of the bitch—I mean witches. He sent me away with their magic choker to ruin their ritual and stayed to kill em,” and Nero sits down hard right there on the ground. Relief hits him hard, slamming like a tsunami and washing over his head. Nero can’t do anything but sit there and breathe for a second. He slaps a hand over his galloping heart and breathes. Fucking _hell_.

“There’s witches? Magic using witches? What happened to the nuns?” he gasps, trying to remember if Dante ever mentioned demon witches. Yes? Nero doesn’t know, Dante’s always spotty with details but he wouldn’t have sent them into witches like that. He wouldn’t.

Nero drags a hand down his face, Dante wouldn’t have done that, so the demon shit escalated? Sure, it took them a week to get out here but none of them thought it was that serious.

“There weren’t never any nuns kid, witches were trying to lure Dante into a sacrifice,” Griffon sighs, landing on Nero’s shoulder. He’s barely got any weight to him, even with the chains, and Nero automatically cups a hand around him.

And yeah, he can accept that. People are always trying to lure Dante places, he’s the legendary devil hunter and there’s always some shit happening around him. But…but the witches didn’t see Dante show up so decided to what? Snatch V? Did he look like good hostage material?

“Why’d they take V? Where is he anyway?” Nero asks, jumping to his feet again because shit, what’s he doing sitting around on his ass? V’s out there somewhere dealing with witches all on his own. He’s got Nightmare but he can’t keep it out for long and Nero hasn’t seen it at all since V came back.

What if it’s harder for him to summon? What if it’s more of a strain? Shit Nero’s gotta go help him.

“One track mind much? He’s there,” Griffon says, smacking Nero’s hand away so he can point off into the forest where…where he can see trees breaking and snapping and getting shoved aside for something huge to move through, but he can’t hear it. Whole fucking trees are falling and crashing into each other because some thing that’s shorter than the treeline is passing through.

His blood runs colder, if that’s possible, when he realises oh fuck, that’s where V is. He’s drawing Red Queen and getting ready to race off into the forest when birds—_a whole flock of demonic birds_—flies up with a screech that only kicks in when they’re above the trees. Griffon hisses on his shoulder and Nero’s about to pull Blue Rose when a familiar beam of energy splits the sky.

The whole world dims as Nightmare’s fucking laser blasts through the trees into the sky, disintegrating the demon birds on fucking impact. Griffon covers his eyes but Nero watches, unblinking, as the birds burst into flames, crumble down into ash then essence in the span of seconds. It’s a quick, precise attack that obliterates the entire flock in a silent second and Nero snorts.

He forgot what Nightmare was like, the ah chaotic power that V could summon up for a few crucial minutes. Nero’s seen it take down some pretty heavy hitters, got them on their knees, and left ‘em vulnerable enough for V to finish off, and he kinda forgot that. Right now, it’s all flooding back and the hair’s raising on his arms with the demonic charge.

There’s a smell like ozone, like a thunderstorm blowing in, and the beam slices down into the forest floor in an elegant arc of destruction. Nero counts, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and the fireball plumes up nearly the same time the van rocks with the explosion. Griffon squawks and flaps frantically as the shockwave smacks into them, and Nero reaches up to hold him steady.

The fireball burns out quick, demon blood orange, demon eye yellow, then it’s smoke and it’s gone. The heat cuts through the cold wind and scorches Nero’s face, like sticking his head in the oven, but it’s bearable and his hand takes the brunt of it for Griffon. The rumble probably knocked over more shit in the van but Nero’ll deal with that later.

For now, he watches V’s Nightmare plunge out of the forest in a shower of smoking wood and burnt leaves and it is fucking huge. The thing is bigger than he remembered, clearing the treeline at the edge of the forest where Nero guesses the shorter trees are? It’s gotta be at least thirty feet tall now and it’s different.

Not a baby like Shadow and Griffon but it’s less…defined? Uh, it’s not as put together? Less rocky, more oily, like a walking oil spill with one giant purple eye and…

“Tummy teeth?” he asks, staring some more and yeah, those are tummy teeth. A big gaping mouth in Nightmare’s stomach region with spikey black teeth. Looks more like a cave mouth with a bunch of stalactites and stalagmites than a human mouth but a mouth’s a mouth, and tummy teeth are tummy teeth.

And, on Nightmare’s shoulder with his cane shoved into the mass of demonic oil, is V. White haired, rumpled, and smirking down at Nero, is V.

“Where the fuck did you happen?” Nero shouts as V jumps down with a clang of iron cane and crunch of heavy boots. Sound’s back, wasn’t for Nightmare but maybe whatever took the sound away needed a little time to wear off. And V’s arching a delicate eyebrow at Nero, like he’s confused and—

—And then his brain catches up with his mouth and ah that wasn’t English. Nero sheathes Red Queen and drags his hand down his face, taking the time to get his words sorted out before he says:

“What happened to you?”

Better, sensible. Nero puts on his best “_I am **very** displeased_” scowl and cotches one hand on his hip, the other’s still holding Griffon steady. In return, V has the decency to look a little sorry but his smile is still pretty vicious as Nightmare dissolves back into his tattoos and drips vicious black into his hair. They stare each other down as all that white gets covered up one drip at a time.

Then it’s V standing in front of him in crinkled clothes and some scratches on his bare hands. Nero holds his scowl for three whole seconds before he breaks with a sigh. V has the superior poker face.

V also wasn’t the one about to have a breakdown over Nero’s disappearance. Nero’s pretty sure if _he_ ever got snatched by some big bad demon thing, or witches, V would keep a cool head and figure something out. He wouldn’t try to bash his brains in against a steering wheel and squeeze through a window because he forgot how to use a door.

Nero really hopes something like this never happens again but who can tell with their lives? He’s just glad V doesn’t look too bad. Some dirt artfully smudged across his nose, a couple leaves caught in his hair, and a lil blood smeared everywhere; he could be the poster boy for sexy return to nature aesthetics.

“The witches wanted Dante and were displeased when Vergil’s kin showed up instead. They hoped to use one of us as leverage and attacked under the cover of some rather advanced cloaking spells. Did you notice the cold?” V explains, letting Nero take his hand without complaint.

V’s seen him check over all the kids like this, Kyrie and Nico too, give Dante a couple once overs. V knows Nero’s kinda neurotic about making sure everyone’s okay and doesn’t even tease him about like Nico does. He lets Nero flip his hands over, checking the scrapes and cuts that’re thin and already clotted.

They’re probably just from riding Nightmare while it busted through the forest, not from the witches trying to drain V’s blood for a ritual or something. Other than cuts, there’s dirt on V’s wrists and bruising on his knuckles, the left set, and Nero figures V threw a couple punches before calling Nightmare. But, the bruises’re already purpling at the edges, red hearts not so harsh, and Nero lets V have his hands back.

V’s fine. He got kidnapped but he’s fine and Nero got to see the proof for himself. His stupid big brother instincts can calm the fuck down now because _V is Fine_.

“I believe they were trying to open a hell gate and meant to use these,” V lifts the string of jewels off Griffon, “as the trigger. Ruby conducts devil magic quite well, and it wouldn’t be the first time a portal was hidden in some jewellery.”

There’s something wistful there, something Heavy™, and Nero’s going to politely leave that alone for now. All he wants right now is to get V back in the van and get them both the hell outta witch city. He doesn’t even care about the gas money; the shop can absorb the cost and it was Dante’s damn fault anyway. Vergil’d _told_ him to vet his clients better.

Nero doesn’t ask if all the witches are dead, V wouldn’t have left any alive. He also doesn’t ask where Shadow is, she was out when V got took, she probably got herself stalemated in the scuffle. And he doesn’t know much about how V’s demons work, what the recovery period’s like, but he knows Shadow’s resting.

She’ll probably be back when they’re halfway home or something. A prowling, yowling terror to everything not bolted down and scratch resistant.

“Let’s just…get home,” he sighs because what else can he say? These are just the dangers of the job and hazards of being a Son of Sparda. Which V is, screw whatever Vergil’d have to say about it. V’s just as much Sparda’s kin as Nero is.

He got kidnapped by witches and busted out of their hell portal ritual on the back of giant golem with one eye and tummy teeth. Shit like that could only happen to a Son of Sparda.

V doesn’t say anything either, just climbs back into the passenger seat a little stiffer than he got out, and Nero gets them back out to the road. And it’s only when he’s turning back onto the highway that he realises V’s sweating again, wilting into the seat. And oh yeah, it’s hot again, not that the witches are dead and their ritual’s off.

His demon wants to curl up in a nice patch of sun for a while and have a good long nap, and usually Nero’d be against that kinda thing. He has a job to do, but it’s over now and Dante’s not expecting them back for a few hours. And according to the map he checked, the village nearby’s got a few good restaurants, family friendly, and Devil May Cry’s a family business now.

“You know, since we’re early and I’m the Head of the Mobile branch,” he says as he makes a very illegal U-turn and V perks up, “why don’t we have a company paid lunch break, with ice-cream, and take in the sights? We deserve it.”

* * *

In retrospect, Nero should’ve realised he wasn’t completely human years before he did. He never bruised, didn’t scar, never got sick. The worse thing that ever happened to him was dislocating his shoulder and it turning scaly, which was another screaming sign he ignored. Honestly, he’d wilfully ignored all of it. He was a Knight of the Order back then he couldn’t be a _demon_.

Now, he’s just glad his demon blood lets him have an extra pair of hands and an immune system strong enough to choke a horse.

“Seriously, thanks for taking Carlo and Kyle,” Nero sighs when everyone’s finally fed and asleep and he can take a second to _breathe_. The house is finally quiet, and he can lay down on the couch without worrying someone’s gonna croak on his watch

“It was no problem Nero, how are the ladies and Julio?” V asks, a little muffled over the phone but that could be the hour. Saviour it’s nearly three in the freaking morning.

How _are_ they though? Nico’s lucid again, able to sit up and eat with help, but Nero’s not letting her out of that damn bed until she’s _all_ better. She can slur as many arguments as she wants, she’s still sick and he’ll tie her down if he has to.

Kyrie’s still in and out of it, waking up long enough to choke down some soup but too exhausted to do anything else. Nero’s just glad her fever’s down, it should break by tomorrow if he’s lucky. If not, Mrs Cardenas offered to stay with Julio and Nico while Nero takes Kyrie to the hospital, but fingers crossed it doesn’t come to that.

And Julio is…miserable. He’s awake, lucid, and hates being bed bound when he could be _helping_. Nero has to spend half his time making sure Julio’s not trying to sneak out of his room to check on Kyrie or attempting to start a load of laundry or some other ridiculous thing. The kid loves that he’s missing school but hates that he can’t help around the house, it’d be endearing if it wasn’t so annoying.

How are they? Sick but getting there, and Nero’s more tired now than he’s ever been fighting demons. He’s _exhausted_.

“Nico’s getting there, Julio’s staging break outs, and Kyrie’s okay for now,” he says, dragging his hand down his face next. Saviour it’s so late, he should be asleep, _V_ should be asleep, but Nico woke up and Nero had to take the chance to get her in a bath.

Of course she splashed water all over the floor, and him, and his pants are still wet from that but Nico’s clean and only needed minimal help. She bathed herself and Nero helped her into some pyjamas with his face pointedly turned away. By the time he got the mop and bucket into the bathroom, she was snoring away again.

And now he’s here, sprawled out in the living room because he doesn’t dare slip into his and Kyrie’s bed right now. She hasn’t been able to rest ever since the fever took her, too many aches and pains and the fucking itching on top of it all. Julio told him it was like going mad not scratching but scratching hurt because everything hurt.

Kyrie’s finally asleep now, after a solid two days of this stupid virus, and Nero’s not gonna risk waking her up again. If she needs anything, he’ll hear her, but for now, he needs some rest too.

“How’re the kids?” he asks when he remembers what he called for in the first place. Throwing an arm across his eyes to block out the kitchen nightlight.

Thank the Saviour Carlo and Kyle didn’t get sick with everyone else. Nero’s not sure how he’d deal with five sick people. He can barely handle the three he’s got.

Also, thank the Saviour V was up for not only renting a car but driving it all the way to Fortuna and back to the shop, with the kids. Who’d’a ever thought those crapshoot driving lessons in empty car parks and down deserted backroads would come in handy so soon. All it took was two weeks of heavy research and three more of sporadic lessons and V’s a better driver than Nico now.

Nero sniffs a little thinking about it. V can drive because Nero taught him. V’s watching the kids because Nero trusts him; he didn’t even hesitate to call when Nico threw up and Julio started complaining about joint aches. Kyrie was already sick then but they all thought it was just a passing flu.

When Julio and Nico went down, Nero hustled Carlo and Kyle off to Mrs Cardenas’ house to hopefully keep them healthy and called V. Five hours later and V was there with a car Nero’d never seen before and a promise to take care of the kids until things were better back home. Griffon had flown his fat lil ass onto Carlo’s shoulder and Shadow had gently herded them into the car while Nero loaded V down with clothes and homework and a couple toys.

He’d watched them from the window, one eye on V’s careful three-point turn, one eye on Kyrie throwing up in a bucket. He could see V white knuckling the steering wheel, but Nero trusted him, he did; he one hundred and fifty percent did. The kids had waved hard from the car and Griffon gave him the bird equivalent of the bird and Nero had only felt a little bit frantic when V turned the corner.

“They’re behaving themselves despite Dante’s best efforts,” V tells him while Nero grips the phone a little too hard, “they miss all of you and are making a half dozen get-well cards.”

V’s voice is smooth and low, easy to listen to and calming. Stretched out on the couch listening to V, it might be the most calm he’s been in a week. Between freaking out over Kyrie’s fever that wouldn’t go down and Nico scratching herself bloody and Julio who couldn’t keep anything down and all of them being too sick to move, he’s been stretched thin. Taking care of people is a lot harder than killing demons but it’s all winding down, thank the Saviour.

Now, he can take a chance to catch his breath and let his mind unwind to ventures with V feat the menagerie (plus Dante) and special guests, Carlo and Kyle. He snorts when V tells him about Griffon’s donated feathers, for the cards of course, not at all because Dante scared them off him. And has to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle his cackle when he hears about Shadow’s sneak attack retaliation.

Dante’s convinced the hell kitten hates him and is actively plotting his demise, and sometimes Nero’s on his side. Shadow waiting in the literal shadows of the stairs and attacking Dante’s ankles when he walked down? Hilarious. Dante falling his ass all the way down but never once letting go of his pizza? Hysterical.

“She adores him, he’s a big, stupid littermate to her and she’s trying to train him,” V explains around his own quiet laughter. Nero’s grinning behind his hand, because yeah of course. Dante’s just a dumbass who doesn’t know how to hunt or take care of himself.

“Glad someone’s trying,” he mumbles, then yawns so wide his jaw cracks. Right shit, he’s still tired. Hasn’t slept in a solid forty-eight hours between doing all the regular chores and taking care of everyone.

He can go longer, probably, but he’s wearing down. Maybe it’s the stress getting to him, Kyrie warned him about that, but she’s sick and doesn’t get to lecture him right now. He doesn’t care if his whole head goes grey so long as she’s okay by the end.

“Lady assures me it’s been a team effort for several years,” and Nero snorts again, yeah he bets, “but he’s gotten better and she tells me…she says I….”

V’s voice falters and Nero frowns, pressing the phone closer. Lady’s been around a few times since Dante dragged himself back out of hell, and once since V dragged himself out of non-existence. She’s been fine so far, no grudges Nero knows about, even if he doesn’t know much about her.

Nico told him she was a walking armoury once, and Dante told him she had bad blood with Vergil but who didn’t? Dante and Vergil went around spilling their bad blood everywhere and Lady stayed away because she was smar—wait, her bad blood didn’t carry over to V did it? Cause Nero knows Dante and Lady have history and they’re best friends but if Lady’s threatening V, Nero might have to beat her ass on his behalf.

Because there’s no doubt V can beat as much ass as he wants but he wouldn’t beat Lady’s cause he’s got manners or something. That’s where Nero comes in. He’ll kick anyone’s ass if they deserve it and anyone telling V shit definitely deserves an ass kicking. Dante’s friend or not.

“She says Dante is happier with his family, and despite his less than conventional acquisition of it, she’s glad he has one again,” and V’s voice dips down to nearly a whisper, Nero has to strain to catch them, “I suppose that was her approval of my existence, a welcome to the family?”

And ah hmm, Nero knows there’s something here, something Heavy™ but he can’t leave this one alone. V’s his…brother. V is his brother. Even if it’s only been two months and V’s existence is a mystery and Nero doesn’t totally understand the guy. V is his brother and V is family.

And it’s not like Nero _knows_ Vergil, they’re father and son but that doesn’t help him understand Vergil’s bullshit and that doesn’t stop them from being family. Hell, he barely knew Dante was his uncle, and Vergil his father, when he was willing to risk everything for them. So, time’s not an issue, if Nero can accept his douchebag of a father, he can accept V as a brother.

He’s _accepted_ V as a brother; he’s invited V to lunch with Kyrie and his kids, he let V tag along on hunts, taught him how to drive. When they went to get those fake ids, Mike asked if V was his long-lost twin or something and Nero was so stunned he had to take a second to reboot. Nero never thought they looked alike, but Mike did, said it was the eyes, and the “_fuck off_” fashion.

So yeah, V’s family. He’s Nero’s brother and Dante’s kinda nephew and Vergil’s uhh he’s Vergil’s. Lady’s not wrong about any of that but the delivery needs work.

“You don’t need anyone’s approval to exist, V, but the acceptance’s nice, I get that,” Nero mumbles, pressing the phone as close as he can without cracking it, “I used to be the punk nobody liked, except Kyrie and Credo. They were my only family for a long time.”

Nero rolls over, puts his face against the couch cushions, and lets himself think about this. Think back to being the rowdy kid who could never settle down and had something just off about him. He wanted their approval, their acceptance. He wanted to be a regular kid with friends and a family and a sibling he could tell secrets to and love. He used to want everything he’s got now, he _gets_ it.

The—the—the feeling like there’s something wrong, like he’s gotta earn his space and his right to be as happy as he is. He needs to prove it to the world, to every person who ever looked at him like he was nothing. V said he wanted to be loved, and protected, and he’s getting that now, and maybe it’s kinda scary.

Dante likes him, considered him family right out the gate. And Lady’s right, Dante _is_ happier now, he takes better care of himself because he’s got a reason to. He’s got these nephews and he’s got this brother and he’s not alone anymore; he’s got a reason to make an effort.

Lady was doing Lady things before and after V. She’s aloof and doesn’t beat around the bush and maybe meant exactly what V thinks she did. Nero’s not sure, he doesn’t know the woman, but she’s wrong. V doesn’t need her approval just because she had beef with Vergil. V ain’t Vergil and V hasn’t made a single mistake that he didn’t correct.

Vergil split himself with Yamato and V helped undo that. Crumbling to pieces and dying with every breath but still fighting to fix a mistake _he_ didn’t even make. So, Lady can stuff her approval right up there.

“But now I’ve got Kyrie and the kids, you and Dante, even Vergil. We’re all family and Dante practically adopted you. He cleans for you V, he _cleans_,” Nero laughs, just a touch manic, not much, just a little, because he's gotta make sure V understands. Dante loves him, won't say it in so many words, but it's the truth. He keeps the shop livable, goes out on hunts, doesn't lock himself away from the world anymore because V's there. 

Nero doesn't doubt Dante would've done that for him too but he's too far away. More of an abstract family member than a real one, which is hilarious and downright depressing and frustration given form. If Nero _knew_, if Dante'd just **_said_**. They're family for fuck's sake, and they both care about family, but it's dangerous to be Sparda's kin so maybe Dante was just protecting him or something? Ugh Nero doesn't know. H'es too tired for this much angst. 

“and he’s gonna be pissed you didn’t take his name,” he mumbles, leading himself away from all'a...that.

He'd rather think about V's name, and Dante's name, or should he say names? Nero knows maybe half of Dante’s fake names, Tony Redgrave, Jackson Mar, Leon Daxter, _Damian Alighieri_, that last one was a little on the nose but who’s Nero to judge? He’s got a fake id for Bianco Demone and uses it to buy beer; Credo would disapprove so hard and no, Nero doesn't get teary eyed thinking about it.

“_Gilver_ has history, Nero, it was one of Vergil’s terrible fake names,” V murmurs and Nero can hear the smile in his voice again. The fragileness is gone, or it’s covered up and less noticeable, but Nero doesn’t think so.

V doesn’t just say things, he takes his time and thinks about them. Maybe overthinks sometimes but that’s not such a bad thing, _someone_ in this freaking family needs to use the braincell. Funny how Nero used to think that was Vergil. His father was nothing like Dante, he had to be the prim and proper one, cocky as shit but it wasn’t like he couldn’t back it up.

Then Nero walked in on Dante and Vergil balancing their swords on their noses, tip first, and juggling various, non-juggling friendly items between them. Nero still has no idea why **_Vergil_** suggested it, because he had, and said so proudly too while wiping his bleeding nose. Nero hopes he never walks in on V balancing his cane on his nose, he’s got illusions he never wants shattered.

“You put the ironic thing between your lips, but you don’t give it the power to kill you?” Nero jokes, only kinda understanding it. He’s heard it around, from one of the kids maybe, or Nico; she was always making weird fucking jokes.

Whatever, he’s pretty sure it works here because “_Vitale Gilver_” is a really stupid name if you know why V chose it. Dante will, apparently, and Nero hopes he’s as entertained by it as V thinks he’ll be. Nero, and Griffon, think it’s dumb. Gil ver, did Vergil even try? Hell, what about V? Did _he_ even try?

Him and Nico used to have this running bet about what V stood for because no way was that the guy’s real name. Nico put her money on something stupid like Vimey, said Dante’s mysterious client was probably just too chicken to share his real name. Nero didn’t think the name even started with “_v_”, that was a red herring to throw them off, and V was related to some devil hunter Dante would never work with.

All that time and it was a complete bust.

V was for Vergil because neither of ‘em could make up a fake name to save their lives. Now V’s for Vitale—_unofficially_—and Nero’s not gonna lie, he’s kinda really happy V chose an Italian name. He matches with the rest of the family; Dante, Vergil, Nero, all Italian. Though Dante and Vergil might be from that bible story and Nero just got a name off the orphanage list. V got to pick a name and he decided he wanted to match. It’s nice.

“If that’s a reference, I’m afraid I don’t know it, besides Dante can hardly complain when he chose Redgrave for his mercenary alias,” V scoffs and Nero can hear that eye roll and he can’t stop his snicker. Redgrave? Was that why Ivory and Ebony had that word engraved on them?

Nero just thought that’s where the guns came from, Dante bought them from someone back home, as like a memento or something. He never thought Dante _called_ himself that, Saviour, his family’s terrible at names.

Not too bad at taking care of each other though. V keeps talking, telling him about Carlo and Kyle and Dante and their trip to that pizza place Dante can’t stand but V loves. Nero hears about the books V’s ferreted out from Vergil’s stash and the magic he’s thinking about practicing and…and…and.

And Nero falls asleep somewhere between one story and the next, V’s comforting hum following all the way into his jumbled up dreams. And, when Kyrie calls for him in a scratchy voice and Nero jumps awake, V’s sleep-slow breaths are still there in his ear.

"Morning Vitale, and sweet dreams," Nero whispers before dashing off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone picked up on Dante whining about those lessons like dang, y'all are on top of that shit :D Also, I gave Kyrie, Nico and Julio chik v, a mosquito borne virus, cause I simply can. They'll be fine.
> 
> Next chapter: Vergil and answers to the question no one's really bothered by anymore :3


	7. Long Live the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a spare room smelling vaguely of mould, Vergil considers the life Dante's offered him.

There are memories in his head of places he’s never been and relationships he didn’t forge for himself. There are flashes, _glimpses,_ of his son. Bloody on the floor, white hair streaked red, glistening like ruby dewdrops. Snarling and fighting against weak human arms, desperate to get back to..._Dante_.

He remembers his child—

—_his flesh and blood come to claim his pound of flesh. Looking like Dante, defiant and brash. Looking like Vergil, powerful and arrogant. Looking like Eva…looking like Eva…his son has his mother’s eyes_—

—standing before him with an arm made from beaten human metal and cast away demon parts. V told him that Urizen was the demon that took his arm, Urizen was the devil that needed to be hunted and defeated and destroyed. How morbid and distinctly self-loathing.

V had thought the Sparda could...had relied on it as insurance even after Dante's defeat, and Nero's, and Vergil wonders now, could Nero have wielded his Grandfather’s sword? Would it have accepted him like Yamato did? Does.

Nero does have Sparda's blood, it tasted much the same as Dante's. Precious, and burning where it splashed against Urizen's face. Dribbling into his mouth and catching between his teeth while V hoped and regretted and ran. 

Vergil remembers every wrong he’s committed against his child and he…regrets them.

Sparda never fought them_—_

_—but Sparda left them. Two half-human children with no legacy and a wholly human wife with what? With magic? What good did that do her when Mundus came and Sparda wasn’t there?— _

—and Sparda never hurt them. And in all the ways Vergil has failed his father’s legacy, he never thought spitting in the face of his own progeny would be one. All for the want of power. Dante was right about that; Dante was right about a number of things.

What had his brother called his demonic avatar? A trash God? What did that mean to Dante? Only squalor and filth or was Urizen a failure of a God, one of pitiful aspirations that would amount to nothing in the long run?

Quite philosophical, perhaps more than his brother intended, but Vergil thinks about it as he is now. Sat upon a human made pillow that’s softer than a throne grown for a God. Waiting for human made food while remembering the taste and weight and heft of human’s blood transmuted into devilish gold.

When he sits, quietly and adrift, Vergil can still feel every wet, laboured breath Urizen took within the Qliphoth; being fed and fed and fed till his body felt as though it might burst at the seams, again. Not many dare raise the Qliphoth, not many could; pure undistilled power was hard to contain and control.

Vergil himself wouldn’t have raised it, he would have weighed the pros and cons and decided the cons were simply too heavy. Urizen hadn’t cared though, no self-preservation or too much pride, both, it was _foolish_. What if that demon’s body failed? What if the Qliphoth overwhelmed them and they became nothing more than another, disgusting Qliphoth parasite?

Foolishness. Wasn’t the fruit supposed to provide knowledge? But what sort of knowledge?

In mortal religions, the fruit of the Qliphoth is something terrible; it bestows a knowledge not meant for Man but when has he ever been as base as Man?

Vergil knows…he knows of the demon realms. The shifting, breaking dimensions of it and the denizens it holds shackled within; each layer more terrible than the last. The seas of blood and rivers of fire; the soothing rumble of a realm half of his _self_ is perfectly crafted for. But he knew them before the fruit.

He knows of creatures that existed before humanity struggled out of the depths, ancient species of terror that slumber quietly in the void of unbeing. Mundus called one once, dragged it out of the collective unconscious of a dormant land and forced it into a construct of his own devising. Vergil rid himself of its stain once, cut it out with a sword his father forged, and his brother returned it to its unmaking twice.

But Vergil knew of those before the fruit too.

What has the fruit taught him? What terrible, mortal knowledge has it shared? Nothing. Nothing he can divine, and he has tried. Crawling through the sludge and slur of the underworld with his brother by his side. Soaring across open plains of dust and decay with his brother racing below. Fighting till his muscles burned and tendons tore and his little brother fell behind him and his new power ripped through him to defend his kin.

Tapping his fingers on the table now, Vergil still cannot think what that knowledge might be. He isn’t all knowing, though Dante often mutters about him acting like he is. He doesn’t know how to close hellgates before they open, though closing them is no trouble. He doesn’t know why it is so hard to open himself to his family.

Down in hell it was easy. Dante was never one for talk where action could suffice and fighting alongside his brother was as good as airing all the laundry they never dared. Facing off against his wombmate, blade catching blade, attack then retreat, then parry then thrust; it was all he needed to remind him why he’d wanted power in the first place.

To protect, to keep, to have. Dante didn’t need his protection, not on Earth nor down in Hell, but Vergil gave it. He’d lost over thirty years to his obsession_—he’d lost his **brother** and his **self**—_and he never made the same mistake twice.

They could’ve been content there, ruling together. He was the King of Hell, he’d eaten the fruit, gained the power, the throne was rightfully his and respected as such. Bombasts of devils hunted him across netherworld, to worship him as their King or challenge him for the position. Dante enjoyed the challengers, as did Vergil, it was…fun to destroy arrogant usurpers with his brother.

If he’d wanted, he could’ve erected a palace to live in, a place to rest and eat and stage grand tournaments to slake twin bloodlusts. He could have ruled, like Mundus, or travelled the land, and he had considered it. With his blood hot and pounding and his body moving flawlessly through every instinctive motion. He’d **_wanted_** that.

Then Dante had mentioned Nero.

Nero who they’d left behind to clean up their once home and trusted to keep the human world clear of pests in their absence. Though Vergil thinks that might’ve been more lip service on Dante’s part than a genuine hope. Thirty-five years or twenty-four—_fifteen if their meeting under Mundus counted_—they aren’t enough to overshadow Vergil’s brotherly knowledge.

He knows Dante only worked when he had to, to buy his shop and no more, to feed himself and very little else. The only hunts Dante would have gone on were the ones that appealed to his wretchedly soft heart or the ones he felt a personal responsibility for. So, Dante’s telling Nero that the world was in his hands was, quite frankly, a load of bullshit because that wasn’t Dante’s burden to pass on. Or take on.

And in that same vein, Nero wouldn’t have had a hard time of it either. He was already strong, dangerously powerful and more than capable of using his power. He was brash and bold and arrogant and _motivated_, so much like Dante and himself.

_—Except Nero was kind and patient and willing to trust a man he didn’t know and fix a mistake he hadn’t made. Nero had worried about him…no, **no. **Nero had worried about **V**, a human caught up in a nest of demons. Nero had cared…for V—_

Sparda, the great Saviour of the human world Sparda, had done so much good, accomplished impossible things but even he had his failings. Vergil…Vergil would become more than his father. As Nero was becoming more than him, Vergil would be more than Sparda.

So when Dante finally broached the subject of leaving, finding some worn thin place between the worlds to slip through, Vergil had agreed. He had spent more than half of his life in the demon world, fighting for another devil’s reign, and he was sick of the place. Devils and demons, power, it could all get tiresome too.

When the blood cooled and his skin softened and he could look past the fluidity of war. Power could get tiresome when his little brother stood before him, tall and lax, with a weariness in his clear grey eyes that Vergil knew too well. An exhaustion that didn’t fade or wane and would never fit into the neat little box he’d made for it or die away when he finally got what he’d wanted.

Dante was his twin, then and now, and they share the same blood, the same demon, the same tiredness. Vergil was used to fighting past it, ignoring it, but what of Dante? He didn’t know and for once, he cared. Would Dante stay if Vergil asked? Perhaps, but that weariness would only grow, larger and more terrible until…until.

So, when little brother Dante stood before him, casual and trite, and asked “_What about the kid?_” then sat heavy on the ground, blowing blood soaked hair from his eyes to say, “_Ha, Nero’s probably waiting for us”, _Vergil knew what he had to do. Perhaps the tiredness would never leave them but it would be easier to bear in their mother’s world…_their_ world.

The finding of weak points wasn’t hard. Dante _was_ a devil hunter after all, lazy or not, and had dealt with demons slipping their whole bodies into the world before. For two half demons, it was less slipping and more forcing their way back through, with water as their medium and blood as their slick. Apt he thought.

Swimming the channel between worlds, fighting the sugar-sweet pull of a land that had gotten fond of them, it had been…exhilarating. And bound together with devil forged silver, linked at the hips once more with his little brother had been nostalgic. In a way Vergil could not describe, his memory couldn’t stretch _so_ far, but grasping at Dante’s blood slicked hand and fighting through a weight that would crush them dead was familiar.

Sitting now in this library, listening to Dante sing along to some song more full of growls than a devil’s nest, isn’t familiar. It isn’t easy like fighting was and isn’t comforting like breaking through worlds had been.

They had burst out of the water together then, gasping for breath they didn’t need and squinting against a light they’d almost forgotten. A full moon had greeted them that night, shining down while they sucked greedy breaths and spat saltwater. They’d appeared off the coast of an island Dante knew and Vergil cut them a portal directly to the shop from a rocky little beach.

According to Dante’s human friend, Morton he thinks, they were gone for eight human months and Vergil snorts thinking about it now. How long had it felt down in Hell? Longer? Shorter? He isn’t quite sure, time moved differently in the realms and between the realms, and he and Dante both had the spirits of Geryons showing them the secret spaces between seconds.

Time was relative, and now he has relatives. There is Dante, as there always is, but also Nero now and Nero’s own children. V saw them, a picture in the van, tucked into the thing to protect eyes from the sun. Nero had folded it down once and V had seen the pictures, of Nero’s wife and his children and all of them together.

That was the one and only time he’d seen his son happy, smiling for smiling’s sake and not for the thrill of a fight. Nero’s hair had been longer in the picture and his devil’s arm had glowed golden where it curled delicately around Kyrie’s shoulder. The children had stood between them, held between them, and, at the time, V had wondered about Nero’s little family.

Vergil still does, though he’s met them as himself under Nero’s hard glare and Dante’s crackling smile. He has been introduced to Kyrie, wife in everything but name, and the girl is saintly. She had worshiped Sparda as part of that Order and Vergil smirks when he thinks of how her devotion shifted to Nero after the Order’s fall. From Grandfather to Grandson.

Oh yes, Kyrie is certainly something. Different from his defiant son, kind and forgiving in her way. She’d threatened Vergil with an exorcism if he dare hurt Nero again.

Human as she was, she’d growled those words spitefully, spat them in his face when he came looking for her in the pokey little kitchen before he left. Her arms had been covered in soapsuds and her hair had been falling around her face but none of that took away from her rage. And Vergil had understood then what Nero was perhaps too dense to realise.

His family did not want Vergil, not as he was and not as they knew him. The children had stayed quiet around the dinner table, dormouse silent, while Dante tossed terrible jokes into the dead air between them all. Nicoletta had tried to strike up something familiar, asking about V and those demons of his, but it had fallen flat when Dante admitted to killing them.

Nero had eaten his food, talking around Nicoletta’s random gun facts, ripping into Dante’s terrible jokes, and avoiding Vergil’s eyes entirely.

Awkward and uncomfortable, that’s what it had been, and Nero had still invited him to another one. Because Nero was loyal, if dense, and he’d decided Vergil was his responsibility. Vergil still isn’t sure how to address that but hopefully he won’t have to anytime soon.

“Verge, pizza’s here!” Dante yells, like they couldn’t hear the delivery boy putting down the street on his less than reliable scooter. It’s a very Dante thing to do and Vergil can’t help his wry smile.

Dante appreciates family in a more human way than him. Dante likes the closeness and community, it brings out the best qualities in him, and gives him an excuse to care for himself. Vergil can’t say it does the same for him. He doesn’t…rather he…people are hard to understand and their motivations are…complex.

Vergil spent his life anticipating demons, learning devils, all of which let their deadly sin define them. Wrath and Pride and Sloth and Envy; if a hunter could isolate the sin, half the battle was already won. Some indulged in multiple sins, the more powerful the demon, the greater the indulgences but they were all ruled by their nature even then.

Humans were not like that. They could hate with every inch of themselves, be consumed by their rage and lose their selves to it, and still love hot enough to burn the sun. They could be petty and greedy and still care for others, select others but others all the same. Humans can embody every heavenly virtue, and so long as it falls somewhere along their sliding scales of morality, they can fall to every sin as well.

Murder for defence and murder for love are the same but murder for gain is wrong. Stealing for sustenance is frowned upon but stealing for profit is acceptable. Power lies in asset accumulation, power lies in prestige, power lies in nepotism, and Vergil can feel another headache coming on from thinking about it.

Demonic power is so much easier. Who needs money when you can take? Who needs political prestige when you can kill your way to the top? Human society is complex and cruel, and he would prefer not to engage with it.

“Your stupid pineapple and olive is in the kitchen!” Dante shouts and clearly human society shaped his brother’s taste in foods. What’s the point of eating something if it doesn’t try to eat you back? How is eating dead things fair to whatever creature became dinner?

Vergil scoffs, the scent of Dante’s pepperoni wafting through the shop like a pungent miasma makes him want to jump out the window, but underneath the dead meat is something so much better. Cheese and olives and _pineapple_, waiting for him right downstairs along with a brother who never learned to like raw steaks.

Dante doesn’t know what he’s been doing up here in this spare room and he doubts Dante would care. A library of books on everything from human food to human fashion isn’t something Dante would care about, clearly his tastes in both areas leave much to be desired. No, Dante doesn’t care, so long as Vergil confines his collection to the one room—

—_so long as Vergil sticks around and doesn’t go dreevaying off into the demon realm, searching for the kind of power that truly doesn’t exist. So long as his big brother doesn’t leave him alone with a legacy neither of them can fulfil and a family Vergil’s neglected. Damn it, Vergil’s been so **foolish**_—

—and doesn’t do anything completely out of line like trying to steal the deed for the shop. He knows Arkham’s daug—_Lady_, her name is Lady and she is Dante’s friend and Vergil will remember that.

_Lady_ has tried to buy the shop from Dante before, after they came back, she said it would be an ideal place to settle down. She offered full forgiveness on all of his debts, as though she doesn’t already let them slide, and a suitably hefty sum which Dante raised his eyes at before refusing.

In Vergil’s opinion, which neither of them want to hear, Lady is only looking for an excuse to return. Before Red Grave they were all split, Trish and Lady and Dante, all off on their own misadventures until Morton called them in for this one job. Vergil thinks they all got used to each other again, remembered why they cared to hang around in the first place, and are simply looking for a reason to do so again.

Whatever they decide, Dante will go along with and pretend he isn’t secretly pleased. Much as he went along with Vergil’s request for a spare room and his hostile takeover of the shop’s accounts. He can’t think _why_ Dante couldn’t balance them on his own, his brother is lazy and idiotic but he’s far from _stupid_.

Regardless, Vergil’s managed to turn a profit in the first two months of their return to business with a steady increase to come. Even if Lady were serious about her debt collection, Dante would be able to repay it now.

“You cannot kill me, I am subhuman,” his brother mumbles around a mouthful of cheese and Vergil sighs. Runs a hand through his hair and glances around at his library.

A far cry from the vastness of Mother’s. Though childish memory and nostalgia may have expanded it ad infinitum, Vergil is sure a meagre eight bookcases are no match for it.

There were tomes in Mother’s library, detailed instructions for every branch of magic humans could practice and a whole section dedicated to those they could not. There were histories, of the human world during Mundus’ conquest, of the demon world as described by Sparda and defectors of his ilk. And, in the corner by the fireplace, where Mother’s armchair sat bathed in golden afternoon sunshine year-round, there were fairy tales.

Eva taught him and Dante their words there, sitting on her lap in that chair while they held their reader between them. Later, when they were too large to hold together, she brought in a couch of the same make as her chair and set it right next to her. So they could read and play and do whatever rambunctious young boys might.

This library is nothing like that. Eight bookcases and a creaky floor, a paltry sum of books and a single reading nook beaten into the wall. This could never replace that but it is something. It’s a start and his collection isn’t terrible, there are a few first editions to be found, a few tomes of mortal magic and…

And his most recent “_acquisition_”.

Downstairs Dante sings along with his jukebox music, voice dipping to a subsonic drone that Vergil doesn’t completely hate. His brother will never be a performer, but he does soothe the ragged edges of Vergil’s nerves, and no, he will never tell Dante that. Some things he cannot say, not without shame or—

_—terror bubbling and broiling and spilling over in his mouth. Bitter like bile, eating through the lining of his stomach and spilling into his guts. Hollowing him from the inside out till he’s only a husk for something else to fill with their intent—_

—frustration when Dante takes it the wrong way.

This new acquisition may help make things clearer, hopefully.

The vellum crackles under his fingers as he traces the faded text, age creasing the page and magic holding it together. Such a simple ritual, nothing like binding a hell gate or sealing away demonic power. The sigils are almost crude in their construction, slashing lines and severe dots, pushed and pulled with a heavy hand.

These are nothing like the magics their mother showed them, the elegance of necromancy or the cold crackle of alchemy. This is demon magic, older than most and simpler for it. What do demons care about detail? Nothing.

This spell, though he’s hesitant to go so far, focuses on function over aesthetic and Vergil can appreciate crude simplicity even if he doesn’t agree. He doesn’t have to agree, he only needs to understand and use it. This demon spell doesn’t promise the most conventional protection, but Vergil’s family doesn’t require the most conventional protection.

Nero and Dante do not need swords that can weather heavy blows or guns with superhuman handling. They do not need _things_. They need…they need something Vergil could not give them until now.

Downstairs his little brother stuffs his face, content in his skin and this life, and Vergil wonders if they could have had this so many years earlier. If he’d held on, if he hadn’t sliced Dante’s palm in a pitiful last effort, if he—

_—if he let go of foolish pride instead of his brother's hand and accepted the help being offered—_

—let himself see beyond the moment, would he have come back to this?

There’s no way of knowing short of spells Vergil would rather not disturb, this one will do just fine.

The reading couch creaks under him, sighing as a lover would as he stands. Outside the sun has set and the near full moon rises. There’s time yet, and preparation to be made, but for now Vergil tucks the delicate leaves into a book on house renovation and heads downstairs for his pizza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, I thought Vergil would be hard to write but I'm a dumb who forgot V and Verge are pretty similar as they were once the same person. Writting V and Vergil is a lot like Fyodor for me, I get to go full purple prose without Regret.
> 
> Plus![More art by the awesome ariebearz](https://ariebearz.tumblr.com/post/188496311233/hey-darkeecofreak-told-you-id-eventually-draw) which kinda counts as a spoiler for some things in the next chapter but they were mentioned before so foreshadowing.
> 
> The last chapter may take a little while as I'm not finished yet but it is coming and it's gonna be chock full of all those good Sons of Sparda feels.


	8. Once more from the top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to research this, that's what he told Dante; research. Unfortunately, the answers are written so small and phrased so cumbersome that it's slow going to get what he wants. Fortunately, he's good at this, reading, translating, transcribing, and hypothesizing, and needs only the bare minimum breaks in order to get what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: unintentional self-harm, some blood, mockery of an exorcism. Check end of chapter for Latin translations.

_ “How many times have we fought?”_

_“Hard to say, it’s the only memory I have of us since we were kids.”_

* * *

Vergil sleeps, not as much as his slothful brother, but he does need to indulge occasionally, and this week has been taxing. Some rest would be appreciated, perhaps even necessary.

When he’s gone days without it—_years without it_—he gets irritable—_becomes less himself_—and sleepless irritation would be an unwelcome addition to his search. He already has confused irritation, disgusted irritation, and irritation at incompetence lounging by his side, Vergil truly does not need this joining the clown troupe. However, it very well may if he cannot find a way to drift off.

He refuses to spend more time on this than he must, should have been halfway done already, but the reference scripts are a challenge. There’s more than a baker’s dozen of them, centuries old manuscripts written by hands unused to holding pens or human shapes. Some of the pages are taken up by huge scratches of ink that cut through the parchment in some places and barely coalesce into letters. Others are covered in miniscule scrtiches, spider-legged letters skittering across the pages and stuck so close together they’re barely separate words. All written in langauges long dead of course.

Vergil has spent the entire week reading them, squinting and snarling at them until he admitted to needing the pinching, horn-rimmed glasses. With those he’d managed a solid paragraph more per day and by the end of this first week he has read: One Manuscript.

“Do you remember, Dante?” he asks into the empty darkness, “when Mother gifted me my book?”

The dead room does not answer, neither does Dante, but Vergil expected nothing less.

Dante is miles away in his shop with his pizza and his devil arms and _V_. Dante fought him, not unexpected, and Nero had stopped them which…wasn’t what Vergil thought would happen. His son was still such a strange thing, a strange man to understand but not impossible.

Dante had said they were both bull-headed, father-and-son stubborn once, and Vergil had smacked his brother’s head for that. Then Dante had elbowed him in the gut, and they’d ended up wrestling on the floor until Dante’s pizza showed up.

Now V is staying at Devil May Cry with his shrunken familiars and Vergil is…Vergil is laying in his mother’s burnt out library. The bookshelves are gone; no more stacks and aisles to go creeping through at night, playing hide-and-seek with his giggling brother till father caught them. The drapes burnt in the fire and the years took the soot away, but the bare walls are still fire blackened, no more pretty floral wallpaper.

The floor…well the floor isn’t too bad. The elaborate wooden panelling burnt too but the foundation was always strong, good enough to stay together through everything this house has been through. The second floor was less accommodating, the former bedrooms, but Vergil prefers being able to see the stars when he lays in the spot that used to be his and Dante’s couch.

He’s lain in far worse places than a bit of concrete left to the elements and it isn’t even half bad. When he bundles his coat under his head and cants his hips, it’s almost comfortable, not enough to sleep apparently but enough to lay awake in.

“You wanted to know why there was a V on the cover.”

Comfortable enough to tell himself stories in and lay Yamato by his side. Vergil never lets her get far, never again, but by his leg instead of sheathed at his hip is nice too. He’s freer to splay his legs and reach one hand up-up to the sky that isn’t quite so far away. The moon is waxing again, a swollen egg already falling into the horizon. Soon it will break and its yolk will spill across the sky like the storms churning between this heat.

The house will flood then, as it has for the past thirty-five years. It will stand silent and sombre, watching the world wash away and what? And rot? The wards were broken, and the protection gone but Eva’s magic had seeped into the wood itself, the house stands as a testament to her power.

Vergil would have liked to study under her. Listen to his mother’s calming lilt as she explained her craft. Would she have encouraged him to study human magics or would she have found demonic tutors for him instead?

“And Mother told you it was V for Vergil, like your toy Geryon with its D for Dante.”

Eva was a…practitioner of the occult arts. If she was a witch, she’d never said, and Vergil had never heard tell. Though, there wasn’t much anyone _could_ tell. The story of Sparda and his human love wasn’t well known, few knew of his family and fewer still of his enchanting wife. Eva’s mysteries had died with her…because she _had_ died.

Dante said she had died looking for **_him_**. After hiding one son away, Eva had gone searching for the other until it killed her. Vergil wants to…he would like…

He huffs a frustrated breath between his teeth and glares at the stars. So far away and blight. Mundus used to have a crown of stars; real, living stars he had plucked from the sky and sealed into otherworldly metal. Vergil had seen it as—Vergil had seen it once.

A gorgeous thing that glimmered and glowed with power, pulsing too quickly to see the dark between each beat. Mundus had scoffed when he caught Vergil looking at it, said it was a trite little trinket he didn’t care for anymore. He’d only made the thing to prove he could, that he truly was a _God_.

Vergil spreads his fingers now and counts the tiny pinpoints of light showing between them. Could _he_ do something so wastefully malignant? Steal living stars for something he’d grow bored of the second it was made?

A breeze picks up, rustling through the house, and he drops his hand. No, he doesn’t think he could. Things are created to be used; they are created with a _purpose_ in mind.

“We asked her why Dante and Vergil, what did they mean?” he hums, blinking slowly as he tries to find the calm that will let him sleep.

In hell it was easy. Dante at his back, pressed against the curve of his spine, it was the easiest he’d slept in decades. Back to back with his twin, both more powerful than God, there wasn’t a chance of something catching them unawares. Vergil had been safe and—_happy_—his instincts had understood that.

Sometimes they didn’t. Down in hell they did, they recognised Dante as kin down in the depths of the underworld. In hell Dante was an ally who would watch his flank and only attack when they were safely alone, he was a nestmate and exempt from typical instincts.

In the human world though, there was always no external threat forcing him to be constantly hyperaware of his twin. In the human world there wasn’t anything else and Vergil would feel his hackles raise, feel a snarl build in his throat, because his instincts couldn’t understand why he would willingly march into another arch-demon’s territory. They wanted him to flee before a fight could start, eager to avoid something he would undoubtedly get injured over. Territory infringement was a serious offense, Vergil knew that and his instincts knew that; they didn’t want to be in the wrong.

Dante called those self-same instincts “_his demon_” as though the two were separate entities but Vergil knows better. He knows that the urge to remove his brother’s head from his shoulders is demonic _instinct_, not his _demon_. Much like human instincts of flight or fight, it was something written into his DNA, not his human.

Right now his demonic instincts are confused. He’d only just gotten used to sleeping Dante’s territory, the shop. Dante’s scent had worn its way into the floorboards and walls, into the ceramic tiles and porcelain thrones, and Vergil could barley stand it. At _first_, at first he could barely stand it.

In the months after their return, Vergil had learnt to tone down his aggressive displays. He didn’t raise to meet Dante’s challenges. Not the skinned back lips quirked into a snarl of a smile nor the cut eye glances that glowed just a touch too bright to be a trick of the light.

Vergil had been _good_, for his brother’s sake and Nero’s. The boy didn’t like them fighting in the shop, said it cost too much to repair and Dante bitched at him the entire time repairs were getting done. Vergil understood that as Nero caring about his uncle more than anything else. Nero was fiercely attached to Dante, protective of him even, and Dante was the same in turn.

“Do you remember how soft her smile was that day? The way her eyes squinched shut when she reached to cuddle us close?” Vergil breathes into the wind whipping by.

The words come easily enough, burbling and bubbling in his throat, but they’re still embarrassing. Emotion is embarrassing, _shameful_. Demons didn’t have emotions, they had sins, they didn’t care about things like their mother’s smile or their brother’s laugh or their son’s acceptance.

The wind that ruffles his hair sends a shudder rocking through him, not half because of the temperature, and he reaches for Yamato. Grabs her by the tsuka and pulls her close, rolls onto his side and curls around her.

When he…when he was young—

_—and foolish and ignorant and full of too much pride and let go of his brother’s hand—_

—he used to think Yamato could speak, not that she _did_, but that she _could_. If he simply trained harder and got better and learned her utterly, she would speak to him and congratulate him on being such an excellent swordsman. She would be happy, she would like him, she would _talk_ to him.

He thinks perhaps he was too lonely as a child, after he lost Dante, and displaced his desperation onto his sword. Because Yamato does not speak, she never has and never could and he’s infinitely grateful she cannot. Vergil doesn’t much want to hear what his beloved sword would say to him after everything he’s put her through.

She fought for him, battled Mundus with him and he…he let her go. When Mundus broke her, _shattered_ her, **_hurt_** her, Vergil had—

—_cried out. Tears burning in his eyes, rage boiling in his throat. He had howled, spat blood and spittle at Mundus, cursing him and hating him. He'd wanted to rip the God apart but Vergil had been weak. Yamato shattered under a killing blow meant for him. She had protected him by dragging his arm up in a block he’d been too slow to complete, and to show his thanks, he'd dropped her into the abyss_—

—felt his world shatter with her. Everything he’d believed, every prideful thought and arrogant act, had meant nothing because he’d lost to his father’s ancient foe. And he’d lost Yamato.

His fingers slide along her saya now, perfect and smooth, and slide it off, baring her ken to the night. Perfect and unblemished. She slices his skin easily now, paring his finger down to the bone in a cut so clean it takes his blood soft second to well up. The scent of her metal and his blood twining together is familiar, comforting in a distinctly morbid way, and it relaxes the tension in his chest.

Enough to sheathe her again but not uncurl. He doesn’t have the strength to put her aside again and he cannot say why. Something wicked wafted on the breeze, something wicked his way comes.

_No_. Nothing. There was nothing and he is alone in a husk of a house _<strike>again</strike>_. There was Yamato, the strong length of her pressed along the line of his torso, tucked into the dip of his ribcage. He would rather his heart be cut out than her taken again. He would prefer it in fact. Hearts were far less useful than a devil arm, any fool knew that.

“She said our names were Italian, two people from a story she loved. Dante was a man brave enough to travel the underworld to bring back a map of it, and for that his name came to mean Enduring.”

The words flutter past his lips, taking shape on his tongue and finding life on his breath, and they are almost a prayer. To what God, he cannot say, and for what end, he does not know.

Eva, Mother, he can hear her saying them to him and to Dante. He can feel her warmth, the safety of her arm around his slender waist. She _had_ pulled them close, into her lap; Vergil balanced on her left knee with Dante on her right and a careful hand holding them both. They were rambunctious, that was her word, _rambunctious_, and she preferred to be more cautious than curative with them. Even before Vergil broke his leg and Dante an arm.

“And what about Vergil? I asked her, pouting and demanding. Who was Vergil in the story?”

He _was_ a brattish child, he can see that now. He was lording and demanding and so fiercely determined to be the best at everything because Eva’s eyes lit up so bright when he was. When he and Dante fought with wooden swords and he did something particularly impressive, her eyes would _dance_. And, when Vergil picked up reading quicker, she pet him on the head and said she was incredibly proud.

When Dante learned his sums before him, Vergil _wasn’t_ mad, _wasn’t_ jealous. He was just disappointed in himself, numbers should’ve come as easy as letters, but Eva had comforted him then too. Kissing the crown of his head and herding her two rambunctious boys into the kitchen to start on dinner.

“Vergil was Dante’s friend, she said, his guide who helped him through hell and all the way back home too. And she wasn’t sure, because it was an older name than Dante, but she thought Vergil meant something like Flourishing.”

She was a kind woman, their mother, too kind for her fate. Vergil supposes it’s only fair he come here with his crumbling manuscripts and pinching glasses to find a way to protect the last bit of family she has left. This house was hers, her ancestral home, and the land _burned_ with her mortal family’s magic.

If this land couldn’t protect her—_like it **should** have_—then perhaps he can use it to his advantage, as her son. She wasn’t his teacher and the brand of magic he’s hoping to employ isn’t something she would have dabbled in but…he ah…Vergil hopes she would give him her blessing.

He wants to protect Dante and Nero, the son she hid and the grandchild she never met. Vergil likes to think Eva would have approved of this, she might’ve even been happy. Hmm, but that might be more projection on his part; not lonely this time, not lonely like he used to be.

Yamato does not speak and Eva is dead, neither can approve or disapprove or do anything more than lay neutrally by as Vergil stares into the empty night.

* * *

As much as he would love to power through until all the manuscripts were read and combed through for all relevant information, twice, Vergil cannot. On the eighth day his stomach cramped and the pain cut through his concentration, sliced it to ribbons and left him surly and distracted. On the ninth day the cramps settled into a persistent gnawing that unfocussed his eyes and squirmed across his thoughts till he drove his fist through a tree.

On the tenth day, he tucked his manuscripts into their waterproof cases, and cut his way to the nearest shopping district. Not Red Grave’s, the town over, and now, three hours later, he’s sat in a queer little café with a plate of sweet things and an...empty cup of coffee. He frowns when he notices and carries it back to the counter, lips thin and head pounding.

“Refill?” the barista asks, smiling the same calming smile from two hours prior, Vergil isn’t sure how she keeps it there.

“Yes, please,” he murmurs, rubbing the side of his nose as she rings up another coffee.

Two hours in Bea Sweet have calmed his hunger, the honey tarts are particularly good, but his mind is still slush. He’s tried thrice already to continue his reading, pinching glasses perched on his nose, notebook laid out flat beside him. One manuscript and some pages have filled nearly half his notebook with his own looping handwriting and cribbled together hypotheses.

He’ll have to get more, maybe a packet of them to cycle through as needed, but for that, he needs to start reading again. But he can’t. His mind is too…cluttered, clustered? There’s a wad of cotton in his head that’s caught his thoughts dead and isn’t letting him absorb anything on the page.

“Paper due or something?” the baristas asks conversationally, handing over his change nearly before he hands her his money in the first place. This is his four—_fifth_ macchiato after all and this same woman, Beatrice by the nametag, has made each of them.

Vergil has seen her duck into the back room and heard her speaking quietly in the stairwell between the café and the apartment above more times than he thinks a typical worker would. None of her co-workers seem to mind when she calls them to take over the register though. When she heads to the back, where the baking happens, no one misses her up front, and when she appears behind the counter again, they don’t comment.

Perhaps she’s the manager.

“No, a personal project,” Vergil sighs, sparing an irritated glance at his table. He’s sat there for two hours, staring at the same blasted page, and re-reading his notes. He hasn’t gotten a single thing done in all this time and it’s starting to grate on his nerves.

Wasn’t it enough that he spent a whole hour scenting around this town, looking for something that smelt like actual food? Half of these so called "_establishments_" used too much oil, soaked their dishes in it, and presented their meals for actual consumption. The other half decided smaller was better and hiked up prices because people were paying for the _experience_.

Vergil considers himself lucky to have found Bea Sweet, and luckier still that the café lets customers waste their time in it so long as they buy something, but he can’t say he’s content. He’s not on a deadline, no one but himself is expecting answers to V’s miraculous return, but the impending dread is still simmering in his stomach. Curled at the base of his spine and needling him every second he spends not fixing this.

“Some project, I usually only sell this much caffeine to the college kids,” Beatrice the barista, perhaps the manager, says, adding the little foam design. So far she’s made two flowers, a laurel wreath, hearts, and this time it’s a spider-web. Vergil hadn’t asked for any of them but he hadn’t told her to stop either, they were…nice, cute?

Dante didn’t have the palette for good coffee, he insisted black coffee and cold pizza was the breakfast of champions. Nero though, Nero knew what good coffee should be, and for all that Fortuna was run by a megalomaniacal cult, they knew how to make coffee. When he’d visited as a young man, Vergil had enjoyed their macchiatos, and when he visited his son, however reluctantly that might have been, they had enjoyed macchiatos together.

Nero liked his with tiny rabbits drawn in the foam and would smile far softer than a devil should when he saw those tiny white bunnies. Vergil had thought about mentioning that once, when Nero invited him for drinks the first time, after a subpar hunt that paid fairly. He’d considered telling Nero acts of kind softness would get him killed one day, that a demon’s heart must be hard and infallible.

“It’s…for my son, we’ve been estranged for some time and we’re trying to reconnect,” Vergil murmurs, wrapping his fingers around the warm cup, and smiling at the spider-webs.

Gentle kindness would kill a demon but he is _not_ a demon. He’s been through too much to let himself fall into that old pattern of reasoning. Dante is not a demon, Nero is not a demon, and by all accounts, neither is Vergil. They are half-breeds with human hearts and demon strength, and they can smile at their latte art.

“Oh wow, I wish my dad tried that hard,” the barista laughs but there’s a sparkle in her eyes that wasn’t there before, a quirk to her smile that’s almost sharp. Instinct tells him to draw Yamato, but common sense tells him wait.

She isn’t a threat, she wouldn’t have lived this long if she were, but she isn’t human either, and Vergil isn’t quite sure what to make of this. Do other half-breeds exist? Possibly, Sparda might’ve been the only demon to care about humans but he couldn’t have been the only one to fuck them.

Vergil would say he’s surprised to have found another hybrid but that would be lying. He’s been hounded by demons determined to make him their king, and he’s been hunted by devils determined to dethrone him, despite having neither throne nor crown nor interest in ruling. He’s made up with his brother, for the most part, and been introduced to his son’s family within the last three months alone. Not to mention the devil hunts he’s taken part in.

Finding a lower hybrid, because she must be lower if he hadn’t sensed her before, isn’t the strangest thing to happen to him. She isn’t even the strangest thing to happen this week, that would go to the second manuscript detailing the copulation rituals of Stygians. If Beatrice feels comfortable enough to let her humanity slip, then she must not deem him a threat either and Vergil _does_ have manners.

“I’m sure your kid will appreciate it…” Beatrice lets the sentence hang, clearly waiting for a name.

“Stefano, Stefano Redgrave, please call me Steve,” and if that’s not the name she expects, then she doesn’t show it. Her smile is the same calm customer-service smile she’s been wearing since he walked in, no sharp edges to prick himself on.

“Like the place? Cool, my dad was from there, good luck with your project,” Beatrice says and Vergil nods, keeping the irritation off his face as he walks back to his table with his coffee.

He doesn’t make any headway that entire evening. The words never solidify in something sensible and he gives up the third hour in, but he doesn’t leave Bea Sweet. The manuscripts get packed away but he has other work he can occupy himself with.

There’s work that needs doing, sites that need monitoring, and competitors that need contacting. Dante may be the most prominent devil hunter on the continent, but he isn’t the sole operator and Vergil likes to keep tabs on the competition, intimidate them if need be. There’s one, a hot shot upstart a few states over claiming kills for devils Vergil’s seen Dante clear out of his spare room.

Not many believe the little shit but enough do that Vergil’s contemplating a visit. If this Benjamin does not apologise for his lies and step away from devil hunting for the next few months, Vergil will show the fool a real devil. After all, if he could take responsibility for Balrog, Vergil himself should only be a slight challenge.

He also spends the time drawing up designs for new devil arms. Dante was used to accepting whatever form his new acquisitions chose for themselves but Vergil knows how to shape them. Down in the pits, demonic blacksmiths knew how to work devil arms into better weapons, more deadly and efficient. Vergil couldn’t claim to have half their skill but he had picked a few tricks from them.

When Mundus had no need for him, Vergil would wander the realms, but he always came back to the forge. Sometimes the smiths would hustle him back out, knight or not, he wouldn’t be allowed to see their more delicate projects. Most of the time they would let him stay, set him aside in a corner to watch, or have him help them.

There is no fire in the human realm hot enough to reforge a devil arm but Vergil doesn’t plan on reforging anything, only mild alterations. When this entire debacle is behind them, Vergil is going to ask Dante’s permission to work on some unused devil arms. There are a few that have caught his eye.

For now, he sketches and designs, and puzzles out the workability of things. Around him the world continnues to turn. The café is a mildly busy place, something he notices distantly, people filtering in an out of his awareness as the day wears on. There’s an employee switch just before noon, then another at four when the light starts slanting across his table. Everything takes on a distinctly golden tone then and Vergil has to put on his pinching glasses to cut the glare.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with his eyes, he can see perfectly, and fight without them in any case but…but the glasses make this easier. Reading glasses are specifically for reading and Vergil would prefer to get as much of that done as possible, even if it isn’t for his more important project.

Beatrice comes to his table a few times, switching out his empty cups, refilling his plate of pastries, and he leaves the money on the edge of the table for her. She knows who he is, or perhaps _what_ would be the better word. As a lesser demon hybrid of course she _would_, particularly if she’s in contact with her lesser demon father.

A proper devil would take the chance to attack and Vergil would fuss when that proper devil’s blood splattered his notebooks. Beatrice is far from proper, she’s a filthy human-devil hybrid, and has more brains than both sides of her lineage. She doesn’t try to attack, nor worship, she watches him work and she brings him macchiatos, and Vergil thinks she might be his favourite demon encounter.

When the café finally winds down, and the nightlife winds up, Vergil collects his things and orders one last coffee for the road. Beatrice is still there, though he gets the impression she would usually leave much earlier, and she’s still smiling calmly when he asks for an espresso.

“Making bold new choices?” she jokes as she rings up his order.

“I try my best,” he hums, waiting patiently for his to-go cup and another sleepless night.

Or maybe he’ll take a stroll through the town, see what entertainment humanity has to offer. Dante did nag him about getting out the house more and enjoying himself in ways that didn’t involve sitting cooped up with century old books. Though Vergil seriously doubted his brother’s brand of entertainment perhaps a night out would help unstick his brain.

“Have a good night,” Beatrice says as she hands over a cup so hot it scalds his fingers, which is perfect. The cup rests perfectly against his palm and the first sip burns on the way down, taking some of the cotton with it. Maybe he _can_ get something done tonight. Later.

“You as well,” Vergil murmurs, glancing around the café one more time before he heads out into the town again.

The night settles warm around him, full of possibility and promise with a sky full of stars. Across the street is a bar not unlike the kind he once drank himself unconscious in, further down is a club playing the kind of music Dante loves. Off somewhere there’s a restaurant serving real Italian food and another one with Indian food, and enough spices to make him sneeze.

There’s work to do, manuscripts to be read and a spell to undo, but there’s a life to live too. Years to catch up on and experiences he never cared for as a young man; too invested in a legacy and a power that was never his to have.

Behind him Bea Sweet is locking up, in front of him the town is lighting up, and Vergil has nowhere to be. He picks a direction and starts walking.

* * *

“You’re the older one Vergil,” Mother tsks, acidic and sour.

She’s frowning, pretty mouth turned down at the corners, and it tastes like wilted flowers.

“You have to look out for your little brother.”

Why does he though? Why does he have to care about Dante’s golden blood smearing the air? If Dante’s stupid enough to trip and rip open his stupid arm then why should Vergil care?

Mother cares though. Her sadness is blue, her sadness is red, glittering-gleaming red through his black hatred, and Vergil hates it.

“And you have to _listen_ to him Dante,” Mother sighs, reaching a hand for Dante. Pushing through the swirls and whirls of gold floating lazily between them. Cutting through it with her red sadness and her flower frown to touch Dante’s silver head.

Vergil feels her fingers as plainly as if she’s touching him, the thread of them through Dante’s hair and the cool warmth of Mother’s palm.

“Boys, you’re all each other has, you have to be good to one another,” Mother says, reaching for Vergil, cutting through his bleakness too. Her hand bats it away so easy, makes it wisp away like the choking smoke it is until it clears from his eyes.

Until he can see the blue in Mother’s sadness and the blue of Dante’s eyes…their eyes. They have the brightest blue eyes, they must have stars locked inside them.

“Promise me boys,” Mother says and kisses the crowns of their heads. Dante first because his blood brought them here, then Vergil because he brought Dante to her.

Each kiss bursts silver, glittering-glimmering, it coughs up diamond-dust until the whole room sparkles with it. And Vergil can taste it, heavy and sweet on his tongue when he shouts, “Of course mother!” with his brother.

Mother’s smile is silver-blue-_red_, and Dante’s eyes gleam like starshine on water. Mother’s sadness is sour flowers but Dante’s is burning. Dante’s tears hiss with heat and they _burn_ Vergil’s neck because of course they do. Because of course he lunges for his brother, wraps his arms around him, pulls him into a hug.

Dante is _his_ to protect. Burning or not. Fire creeping along the walls or no.

“Don’t cry Dante,” Vergil mumbles, clinging tight as his flesh sizzles and Dante cries heavy, heaving sobs. All around them the world is burning with Vergil’s hate, for his brother, for himself, and Dante is sobbing.

Every gasping breath, Vergil can feel it, every ugly cry, Vergil can taste it. Copper and salt and sorrow and burning.

Dante’s tears cut into his shoulder, straight down to the bone, and they smoulder in his throat until he can barely breathe, until he’s choking on his selfish brother’s sadness. He’ll die like that, just like that, burning to death in sorrow and hate.

He’ll die like that, just like that, freezing to death. Because Mother is gone, and Dante is gone, and Vergil is gone. There is no silver and no gold, no sorrow blue or red. There is…black rage and black flames.

There is coldness, numb in his heart, curling ice from his lips. He breathes because his Master commands, he fights because his Master wishes, he wants to die because…

“Don’t cry Vergil,” Dante whispers, gun to his temple.

And Vergil’s blood is _red_.

* * *

_Dante!_

The name is on his lips, caught on his tongue, and Vergil wakes up with Yamato in hand.

He wakes up panting and gasping for breath, desperate for it. The day around him is lazy summer blue, squinting against his eyes and heavy in his throat, but Vergil is cold.

The air around him collapses. Yamato singing blue as it goes, and Vergil pants, grabbing at his chest to make sure his too human heart is still there.

There is no gun and no Master, his blood is inside of him and the library is abandoned.

Dante. Dante is…where?

The—the _panic_ in his chest spikes, painful and barbed and twisting like Force Ed—No!

Vergil snarls, pushing himself upright. **_No_**.

Somewhere Dante has triggered, calling upon their father’s power and his own, and Vergil does not know why. There is no power on this human earth that could threaten Dante, not anymore, so _why_?

“_Idiot_,” he growls, adjusting his grip on Yamato and cuts open the world.

* * *

Once, whilst they were relearning each other in Hell, Vergil asked about the finer points of demon hunting; the business aspect. Humans were quicker to believe in visitors from distant worlds than demons from a separate dimension. How did Dante convince them demonic urges existed? Much less enough to have a thriving, or at least paying, business.

The answer: trickery.

“In the Heavenly Father’s name I command you, _speak thy name Demon_!”

Spittle flies from the man’s lips, spattering Dante’s shirt, and Vergil grimaces; disgusting. The exorcist, if that’s what the man truly wishes to call himself, is red in the face and his heart is beating fit to burst. He smells of fear, rage, confusion, and more fear. It’s creased into the squint of his eyes and stretch of his lips.

When Dante lashes out, hand sailg past the man's face, his holy book nearly goes tumbling from sweaty fingers but he manages to keep hold of it. Fumbling with the pages as he desperately searches for the hymn or psalm or prayer that will end the nightmare before him.

“Ex-exire!” the exorcist begs, voice cracking more than it carries. Before him Dante writhes, spine twisting in unnatural ways. Before him Dante's mouth opens inhumanly wide and he _screams_, fighting the hands holding him down.

Vergil rolls his eyes as the man’s helpers hold Dante upright. Silver-blue eyes roll back until there’s only white, strong limbs jerk violently as if in la danse macabre, and the screaming never stops. It draws out, dragging itself down his spine, chilling his blood, and Vergil will admit; Dante’s acting is disturbingly good.

He plays the part of the possessed too well, a testament to how many times he’s done this. Somehow he can foam at the mouth and somehow he can choke himself off, rip the scream right out of his throat with a with gurgle. Vergil would almost be concerned if he couldn’t hear the strong beat of his brother’s heart and the steady whoosh of air in his lungs.

The men inside cannot though, and they shout, alarmed, when Dante quiets. Then they shout, frantic, when he throws himself backwards and away from the cross the exorcist fumbled out of his pocket. The helpers all grunt and groan as they fight to hold him and keep him within the “_circle of protection_” the exorcist drew on the altar. It’s made of sea salt and crushed quartz and couldn’t hold a half-dead empusa.

Vergil snorts as they wrestle themselves exhausted. Dante’s barely trying, using a scant fraction of his strength, but the men still struggle. Cheeks puffing, muscles flexing as beads of sweat roll down their temples into their furiously blinking eyes and Dante _still_ has to hold himself up. _These_ are the fools who shackle the possessed in the fight for their mortal souls? Pathetic.

Dante is no small man, taller than average and well-muscled, but these men are much larger. They tower over him with their bulging muscles and broad shoulders. Dante is lithe compared to them, but still heavier, Vergil is as well. They both have more weight than their frames would suggest, and more strength packed into them than should be possible. If Vergil cared for science, he might have run tests in search of some explanation for their strange physiologies during his helter-skelter youth.

He doesn’t though, nor does he give a shit about the screams from the gathered congregation when Dante “_collapses_”. The men stumble under the dead weight; two crash to their knees and take the third with them. Vergil thinks it’s a struggle for them to not just let Dante sprawl flat out on the floor as the exorcist douses them all in holy water.

“I cast you out Demon! Leave this vessel of the Lord!” the man screams.

“**_Raaggghhhhh!_**”

The demonic roar booms, it _explodes_, and shakes the church down to its foundations. Vergil sniffs delicately as a tsunami of demonic power crashes into him, breaks against his steady stance, and washes past him. Every demon within a ten-mile radius will have felt it, as a challenge or a threat, and Vergil’s sure they’re all running for their lives.

Inside, the church erupts in a cacophony of screaming and fire and chaos as “_the afflicted_” bursts into a pillar of flame. The exorcist, closest as he is, singes and the men who held Dante all scream as their skin sizzles. Not badly, never badly, Dante wouldn’t kill random humans for his schemes, but he doesn’t mind superficial hurts.

“Demon I cast you out!”

“**_Fuck_ _You!_**”

Vergil thinks, though he can’t be sure, that if he rolls his eyes any harder, they’ll roll right out of his head.

Their fully triggered form is larger than the human skin they wear but the true bulk comes from their burning wings. Dante’s unfurl in stages, first apart from its twin, then away from itself, and finally, they bloom into hellish madness. Where Vergil burns blue, Dante burns orange-red-molten _gold_, and they paint the church in shades of unholy beauty.

A ripple scatters through the church, the parishioners, and they all fall to their knees, some of them fainting. Vergil can hear their panicked hearts, their thundering blood, and he wonders what they would have done had their illicit exorcist found himself a demon who cared less for humanity? They’re actually quite lucky he found Dante, Vergil’s ridiculous little brother.

His little brother who considers the exorcist with a tilt of amusement the humans won’t recognise in such an inhuman face. Dante’s stone-like maw falls open as he breathes, steam hissing past his jagged teeth, and the man trembles before him. A sinner before the devil, quaking in the face of his judgement.

A quick adjustment of the binoculars and, yes, yes the exorcist _has_ wet himself, delightful.

“T-Tell me your name, Demon,” the man croaks, hands burnt where they clasp the iron cross, and Dante is having too much fun with this.

Little brother Dante beats his wings, once, twice, sending fiery downdrafts through the whole building, before standing tall and terrible. Vergil almost wants to bat Dante’s stupid head with a summoned sword, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches the rest of this stupid little charade with a heavy sigh and trained binoculars.

“**I am Dante, Son of Sparda, and I will _never_ leave this man**,” Dante thunders, his own summoned swords bleeding into existence. One sweeps away the circle of protection and carves a real sigil into the floor, a sigil—_Vergil taught him_—with dramatic slashes that looks appropriately evil. Vergil has to commend that, however reluctantly. His brother knows how make an impression.

The whole church sucks a breath, scared and sharp, and Vergil snorts as V, yes _V_, walks up the church’s stone path. He’s switched out the stolen jacket for something with trailing tails and a striking silhouette but still sleeveless to show his black contracts. Neither Griffon nor Shadow trail in his steps as they don’t fit the aesthetic, small as they are.

Vergil scoffs as V stumbles, catching himself with Eva’s cane, and pinches the bridge of his nose as V stops to rub at that pesky knee. In his memories, the aches and pains are dull and rolling, a lingering throb that went bone deep. It was different from the crack of bone and the split of skin, it was…more tiring and lasted far longer.

Is it—is the pain the same in his avatar’s second incarnation? Does it keep him up at night and make him stiff in the mornings the way it used to?

“**Ahahaha det mihi cibum, amantes summi cum extra et caseum**,” Dante howls, devil sword slicing through the air in a blaze of hellfire.

Vergil was going to kill him. Apologies Mother, condolences Nero, but Dante had to die.

“**Ne obliviscaris verborum, bibendum!”**

Outside the door V takes a second to gather himself, breathing calmly, smoothing the leather of his coat, and throws open the doors of the church.

“_Nos tantum offerre bibit cum familia agit!”_ V snarls, charging up the aisle, coat billowing behind him. Personally, Vergil would have chosen something a bit more forgiving than leather, the folds and creases need to be worn into the material for proper dramatic effect, but personally, Vergil never would’ve let himself be roped into this nonsense.

Dante’s fake exorcisms are demeaning and foolish and ridiculous and so many other insipid things, but he doesn’t have all day to list them all. Oh yes of course, they do foster public belief in demons; some of these exorcisms get taped and uploaded to the internet for millions to see and some become instant urban legends, but they’re all ridiculous. Vergil is almost ashamed enough to stop going by Stefano Redgrave if only to deny the connection to Tony.

His foolish little brother who’s staring down this “_Demon Hunter_” and his “_holy book_” while reciting his pizza order in Latin. Points for it being semi-correct, the conjugation is off in places and some of the words don’t translate properly, but Vergil understands the jist of it and, regrettably, he must commit fratricide.

“**O homo vere? Quantum enim a bibendum ergo?**”

Yamato is already in his hand, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, while V shoves the fake exorcist out of his way. The man crashes like a felled tree, sprawling without a word, and the congregation murmur fearfully for him but they dare not move to help. Every eye is on the demon burning on their altar and the man who would cast it away.

The clang of Eva’s—_now V’s_—cane planting on the altar echoes in Vergil’s head, crisp and full. It echoes in the bated breath silence of the church as man and demon face off against each other; Dante hovering a delicate foot off the ground, V staring down a devil with a book of poetry.

“_Refert? Nisi pecuniam tuam cum agam_,” V spits, flinging the cane to the floor and his hand in the air.

Dante’s wings beat, Vergil’s eyes roll, and V snaps his fingers.

“_Et saturabuntur, Filius Sparda!”_

A shushing-skittering whisper rips through their captive audience as V’s hair bursts into white. Then screams rip from their throats as Vergil’s Nightmare bursts out of the ground in a shower of dirt and grass outside the church.

They can’t see it, too far in the back to peak through the window, but Vergil can. His Nightmare has grown beyond him, without him, but it stays horrific. The mouth gouged into its stomach is hungry, the single eye of its head sees too much, and every lumbering step shakes the world.

“**Arrggghhh!**”

Dante’s bellow cuts through the haze, focuses Vergil’s eyes back on his brother, just in time to see Dante crashing to his knees as V shakes the poetry book at him. They put on quite a show together, V beating the book across Dante’s horns and spitting pizza-oriented Latin, Dante twisting his demon visage into something resembling shock if not fear.

When Nightmare jumps outside, capsizing the world as it lands, Dante throws himself on the floor, prostrated before V. His wings beat against nothing and his summoned swords bleed away until there’s only V standing above him.

“_Accumsan tua forma et reditum Antonio Redgrave_,” V murmurs. A quiet supplication Vergil’s sure the congregation doesn’t hear.

Outside Nightmare fades into a bubble of sludge and oil, creeping back into V’s hair and down across his arms. Though the people don’t notice that either. They notice that the sunshine is back and the way this fine young man bends as though pained, nearly folding in him on himself. And, most of all, they notice how the demon shakes and shivers.

“**Licuit**.”

And it’s a man sprawled on the floor again, dyed black hair a mess, tears streaked down his face. Dante truly looks the part of a man formerly possessed as he struggles to sit up, accepting the helpful hand V extends with one that shakes so badly V has to grab it by the wrist instead.

There’s spittle foaming at the corner of his lips, a waxy shine to his face, and a streak of black dye creeping down his neck but the congregation doesn’t notice the dye. They only see the proper exorcist, V, standing triumphant and tall, and a man returned to his senses. The bit of sunlight that slants through the window, right onto the altar, adds a flare of drama to the already melodramatic.

“You—you saved my life!”

And this is where Vergil takes his leave; as Dante thanks V for saving him from the horrors of the netherworld and the congregation remembers their mouths are for more than catching flies. They all surge forward as one, voices melding together into an indecipherable mess.

Vergil still hears V murmur, “I came as soon as I could, I have been tracking this demon for some time now. Yes, I **_am_** with Devil May Cry.”

He tucks the binoculars back into his coat and readies Yamato at his side. He only came here to investigate the surges of power that kept him from his sleep. And…if he worried for Dante’s safety at all well, he knows what his brother gets up to when left unsupervised, it wasn’t an unfounded claim.

Yamato cuts as cleanly as ever and Vergil steps into the whorl of blue before V can start the usual spiel.

Vergil hadn’t realised Dante had fallen back on old tricks to drum up business. He’d quite thought the incident with the Qliphoth was enough to convince the humans of the demonic scourge in their world. Apparently not.

The dilapidated manor welcomes him as warmly as a dead thing can, letting him step through the ragged wards without a fuss, and Vergil drops onto the couch he bought. The leather creaks painfully and it doesn’t sit flat on the cracked foundation, but he doesn’t particularly care. This couch is not unlike the one they had, and it fits perfectly into the space so he doesn’t see any reason to replace it.

“Dante, _what_ is wrong with you?” Vergil sighs, letting himself sink into the couch.

His brother is off abusing their father’s demonic power for the sake of enticing human customers. He doesn’t care about the threat displays he’s flashing at anything with even a hint of demonic magic. He doesn’t care that he’s woken Vergil from nightmares two days in a row. He doesn’t even care that he’s leaving humans terrified, granted they usually are charlatans and hustlers.

“What would _Mother_ think?” he grumbles but he can’t stop his twitching smile. He can’t stop the burbling laughter in his gut.

His brother is one of the most powerful demons to ever exist and instead of taking up a throne, he’s scamming people. Vergil doubles over before he can stop himself, clutching at his stomach as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

* * *

“Devil May Cry, how may I help you?”

V’s voice is loud in airy stairwell, it fills the space with a smoky sophistication completely at odds with the café clamour downstairs, and Vergil hums contemplatively. He doesn’t know where the voice came from, _why_ V sounds or looks the way he does, but there has to be some kind of logic to it. And if he has to resort to…to _this_ to understand that logic, then so be it.

Vergil can picture Dante’s desk easily, the haphazard mess scattered across it with a half-empty pizza box perched on the edge. The leather armchair behind with perhaps with a few new nicks in the material from whatever Dante gets up to and V sat comfortably in it. Or uncomfortably? Vergil can’t be sure on that front.

He doesn’t hear the creak of shuffling or the tap of nervous fingers. There _is_ a sound, a soft thing, muted steps on the oak top of the desk but yes, that should be Shadow. The hell…kitten, she's just as fierce as she was full grown and hardly leaves her master’s side. Yes, Vergil can easily see her stalking up and down the desk, small as she is, and the tinny crinkle of paper means Shadow is batting balled up bunches of it around.

The slight ruffle of feathers, nearly covered by the static, must be Griffon. Settled on V’s shoulder? Perched on Dante’s chair, talons digging into the leather and leaving pinprick scars? Vergil doesn’t know.

“Yes uhm N-Nightshade? I’m ah, I’m having a problem with some imps. I think they’re imps but the forum I checked said they might be sprites or like pixies? I got your number off your site and wanna set up a consultation appointment? Do y’all do that?” Beatrice rambles, rolling her eyes as Vergil nods. She’s doing quite well he can barely tell she’s lying and he’s certain V can’t pick it up over the phone.

Because, true to his word, Dante has been using his pseudo-relative as a secretary for the last few weeks. V has made appointments, balanced books, and convinced Nicoletta to make an official webpage for the shop; Vergil doesn’t completely understand how but the site is serviceable. From the word of mouth and his own informant, Devil May Cry hasn’t had a power cut since the reopening.

“Yes, we do, however, all of our hunters are booked until mid-August, unless this is an emergency?”

And Vergil does hate to admit but V is much better at the customer service angle than he’d hoped. He can’t detect a sliver of frustration, can’t imagine eyes rolling on the other end of the line, and he’s inordinately annoyed by that. Dante let _him_ play secretary once and snatched the phone away after two customers.

He doesn’t think there’s much wrong with telling people to quit being snivelling cowards and attack the scourge in their home dead on. If they win, they know themselves capable of fighting further threats, if they fail, then they won’t be wasting anyone’s time when they call in professional help. Dante said being rude to customers wasn’t the best business practice but Vergil disagreed. He still wasn’t allowed to answer customer calls.

“No it shouldn’t be, I mean, we’ve been dealing for a couple weeks anyway. On your site there’s a hunter listing? I was hoping I could get…Vergil? He’s marked as discreet? And well this is a business, kinda don’t want customers thinking the place is possessed or whatever,” Beatrice says, flapping her hand at him when he frowns at her. _That_ wasn’t part of their script.

She’d agreed to help him, as dubious as she was that this was necessary, she’d still agreed. She said she was only doing it for his “_baby son_” because the more time Vergil spent in her café glaring at his manuscripts was more time he wasn’t spending with his kid. Vergil had pointed out several times that she didn’t know what he did when he wasn’t in her establishment and that his son was a grown man, but she’d waved all of that away.

“Your baby son deserves more than this Steve,” she’d said, pulling up a chair at his table and pulling out a laptop to chart their work.

Together they’d made up a persona, a single woman who lived six hours away from Devil May Cry with an infestation of imps in her garage. The woman, Alexine Sullivan, was supposed to ask for Trish who the site listed as available but who Vergil knew wasn’t even in the country. And, they’d agreed that Beatrice would most certainly **_not_** ask for the Vergil person.

She’d given him a rather sharp “_you’re not fooling anyone_” look at that condition but she had acquiesced. Or rather, she’d said, “okay _Steve_” and switched to the shop’s…tweeter? Vergil didn’t completely understand the bird site, but Beatrice hadn’t brought up his picture on the site under a name that wasn’t Stefano while they scrolled tweeter so he’d considered it good.

Vergil hadn't even known Dante had a recent picture of him to put on his site. Vergil hadn’t thought Dante _would_. Even when he’d lived under the shop’s roof and tailed along on Dante’s hunts, he hadn’t considered himself a hunter for Devil May Cry. He—

—_didn’t think he was welcome. Didn’t think Dante would want him shoving himself into something so personal. Balancing the books was one thing, stealing a spare room and shaping it to his whim was another, but calling himself a part of this…this **life** Dante had made for himself. This life that didn’t rely on Sparda’s legacy or Eva’s magic or Vergil's involvement; it hadn’t felt right to force his way into this._

_But here it was. Explicit proof that Dante **wanted** him involved. That Nero didn’t mind, that V didn’t care enough to push against it_—

—hadn’t considered it an option. He was hardly hurting for money after the sale of some particularly hard to come by demon components and had no reason to encroach on Dante or Nero’s hunts. Seeing himself on that site had been a…it had been strange. Hearing Beatrice say his name had been ice water down his spine.

“Apologies, the online listing is out-of-date, Vergil isn’t,” a slight pause, barely long enough to be considered such, “currently available. Our next available hunter would be Lady on the fourteenth who can be as discreet as needed.”

In the background there’s the sound of pages flipping, a flap of wings, and the smooth scribble of a pen on smoother paper. The glide of ink is barely audible over the phone, Vergil has to strain to hear it, but the door flinging open is loud and brash.

Vergil frowns as the door cracks against the wall, bouncing off, then boots on the wooden floor. Boots that should be heavy, but aren’t, footsteps that are deliberate and purposefully placed, but not stomping. Dante?

“What?” Beatrice mouths at him, brows raised, but he shakes his head at her. No, Dante can’t possibly know Vergil is involved in this. Dante was supposed to be off on another days long hunt, Vergil’s informant had made that quite clear and that was entirely why he’d chosen now to make this call.

If Vergil could hear the entirety of the shop through the phone, the soft huff of breath and the slide of pinfeathers against each other, Dante would have been able to hear him. Though he might not have thought to listen, wouldn’t have cared about a random customer call, Vergil hadn’t been willing to take the chance. Staking out the fake exorcism had already been a risk, the spell of silence well-made but harrowing.

The surge of power when Dante triggered had almost broken it, almost _exposed_ him, but no. He’d been safe then, a close call but just that, a close call. But if it isn’t Dante come home early then who’s strolling across the shop?

“Yeah that should be good, uhm sh—oot it’s Sullivan, Alexine Sullivan, from Sullivan’s Bridal on Crescent over in Alcaide. Could your hunter come after four?” Beatrice asks, listing a place Vergil has never heard of but there’s still no lie in her voice. He should follow up on that, find out what reason a lesser hybrid would have to lie so well, but Vergil doesn’t think he will.

Beatrice is _helping_ him and he should be grateful, he _is_, and he will use the manners Dante so often accuses him of not having to leave her business alone. Though it would be easy to pry. A few questions in the right places, a few checks with the right sigils, but no. Vergil will instead roll his eyes as Griffon squawks in the background, whiny voice cutting across V’s before stopping abruptly.

“She can be there at four-thirty for the initial consultation and provide a quote at the end,” V offers and Vergil lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding when a third voice pipes up in the background.

Nero. Not Dante. Nero is in the shop.

“Ready for our next lesson?” Nero’s asking, voice too far away for a human to hear, which is what this customer is supposed to be. Based on Beatrice’s crooked smile though, she hears Nero as plainly as Vergil does, and mouths “_baby son_” to make sure he knows.

“That’d be great, thanks so much,” Beatrice says, muffling a snicker as Nero starts talking about…something? Vergil had no idea what balancing a clutch is supposed to mean or what a gear shift is or how either ties into lessons. What is Nero trying to teach V?

He knows they’ve been doing something in the van, with the van? He’s watched them from a half mile away, squinting through binoculars because, while there are many things his demon physiology allows him, perfect eyesight across vast distances isn’t one. There would have been no reason for it.

Hell wasn’t as geographically sensible as the human realm, spatial distortions lengthened distances, shortened them, completely destroyed them, and who knew what else. Being able to see far was a poorer adaptation than night vision and useless in the circle of Hell Sparda had crawled out of. Having a dozen colour cones was more useful than being far-sighted in a burbling, boiling, liquid hellscape.

“Your appointment is under Sullivan’s Bridal, Alcaide, for the fourteenth at four-thirty. Thank you for calling Devil May Cry,” V says, while Nero continues talking about a blown tire and a jack. Or is it someone named Jack? Vergil isn’t sure but Beatrice doesn’t look concerned as she thanks V and hangs up.

Then the silence rings between them, falling into itself as Beatrice stares at him and he stares back. He asked her to do this thing and what have they accomplished? A prank call. Arkham’s daughter will show up to a place that may or may not exist and what? For what?

Vergil has learnt V is good at customer service, can carry on two conversations, and is doing something mechanical with Nero—

—_he’s learnt that Dante trusts V to mind the shop and deal with customers, and that Nero clears time out of his life to spend with V_—

—possibly driving lessons or car repair. The technical terms aren’t ones he understands, they could be upgrading the van into a human made devil arm and Vergil wouldn’t know.

“Sullivan’s isn’t a bridal shop,” Beatrice says, tossing the phone in the air and catching it deftly. Her gaze doesn’t break but it isn’t accusing, it isn’t even questioning. She looks at him and it’s…soft.

“It’s a funeral home, my father runs it,” and her smile is sharp—_brittle_—there’s a story there but Vergil won’t ask for it. She hasn’t asked for his, even after his picture on the site, even after this whole elaborate scheme.

Beatrice has treated him like a friend almost. He comes into her café whenever the manuscripts frustrate him into a migraine and he eats whatever she puts in front of him, drinking as much caffeine as she’ll allow. He pays of course, she wouldn’t insult him with handouts, though some wouldn’t consider that an insult. Dante wouldn’t, but Vergil is not Dante and he has never been Dante.

Some people couldn’t understand that, the few who knew of the Sons of Sparda always assumed they would be alike. Either Dante would be as haughty and skilled as Vergil or Vergil would be as lackadaisical and larger than life as Dante. Arkham thought that, under his snake-oil schemes, as had most of the demons who’d crossed their paths.

The few who know them well enough to know how very different the Sons of Sparda are greatly prefer Dante. Vergil understands why of course; Lady lost her only family because of him, Trish never cared for Nelo Angelo, and Nero…and Nero. His baby son.

There are hurts within his son that run deeper than a punch up on top of the world can heal. There are disappointments and insecurities that Nero probably aren’t even aware of but exist all the same. Because Vergil wasn’t there, because Vergil was reckless, because Vergil was and is a terrible father.

“So, that was baby son in the background? He sounds like a punk,” Beatrice murmurs, sighing and pocketing the phone. A burner she called it, one with a number that couldn’t be tracked to either of them, and which she would dispose of after. Vergil had offered to cut it, burn it, crush it, but Beatrice said she’d take care of it, she had a friend who was good at that.

More questions, more easy answers that Vergil still won’t look for. There are rumours about him, most outrageous, most true, and Beatrice hasn’t asked about any of those. She might know who Devil May Cry’s secretary is, Red Grave is only a town over and she’s clearly part of the demonic grapevine. Vergil’s humanity hadn’t made any attempt to conceal himself or his involvement with Devil May Cry during that hellish month.

If nothing else, the bombasts know the demon summoner with the corrupted embodiments of Mundus’ generals is important. The question is why.

“He would probably take that as a compliment,” Vergil scoffs.

Why does V carry a demon forged cane? How? The general rabble wouldn’t recognise it but the higher demons would, they all remembered Sparda’s penchant for playing with human metals in demon forges. That cane was one of Sparda’s first successes; not a devil arm but a conduit for demonic energy.

He’d given it to Eva during their courtship. Vergil has vague memories of his mother walking through the manor at night with that cane, the way it gleamed in the dark. Sometimes from the moonlight falling through the windows or the fire under the mantel, sometimes it was just a walking stick. And sometimes it glinted gold with her power, channelling her intent into strength.

Eva promised to teach him and Dante one day but one day had never come. And of all the things looted from their manor, Vergil never thought he would see that one again, much less as V in a hopeless fight.

“You’re a weird dad Steve,” Beatrice sighs, shaking her head with a bland smile.

Why does V have bastardized versions of Mundus’ generals? Why does V know so much about the demon world? Why does V and how does V and who is he? So many questions.

“Thank you, I try,” he says, and she snorts, snickers, and leads him out of the empty stairwell back into the bustling café.

* * *

The violin was an impulse buy, Vergil doesn’t know where he heard the term, but he thinks it applies here. The violin sitting in the second-hand shop had caught his eye, narrowed his wandering focus and called to him. He’d been handing over the money for the thing before he realised he was in the shop; partly sure he’d teleported inside.

The man behind the counter had smiled, tried to make conversation about it, but Vergil had been laser focused on the instrument. He could only think about the child sized violin, _his_ violin, and how it must have burnt with the house. He could only remember setting his fingers on empty air as V, pretending to play like a fool, like a _child_.

Standing in the rubble, in the middle of fights, V had let the world fall away and played _nothing_.

Now Vergil has a violin, a real one that hefts beautifully in his hands and tucks neatly under his chin like he remembers. There are scratches on the body and the slightest warp to the bow, perhaps why it was in the second-hand shop in the first place. Violins were finnicky things, if he remembered right, and the slightest flaw could distort its voice.

That hardly matters now though, hardly matters to _him_. Vergil hasn’t played a violin, real or imaginary, in decades. He doubts he remembers how to coax much of anything from these strings. If he can draw a hum out, he’d be pleased, but first, he has to try.

Has to stop staring at the dark gleam of it resting across his thighs, has to loosen his jaw and centre himself. There’s no risk of embarrassment, he’s the only sentient thing for a good two miles and violins may screech but they aren’t that loud. Vergil doesn’t have anything to fear, so why can’t he do this?

Because of his childhood? Because of the phantasms this may draw out of the burnt husk of his once home? Because he can’t stomach the idea of being less than impeccable at a skill he’d all but mastered as a child?

—_Because Dante isn’t here to accompany him on the harp. Because Mother isn’t here to praise him and coo over his every accomplishment—_

Vergil scoffs as his fingers twitch along the slim neck, curling around the fragile wood. He could crush this lovely thing to splinters and end this idiocy. Impulse buys were meant to be regretted, if he breaks it then surely that would fit the requirements. Yes, yes it would, so why can’t he break it either?

As simple a thing as closing his hand and he can’t do even that. Pathetic.

Overhead the clouds puff candy pink and lurid orange, overheard the sky bleeds crimson, and Vergil hums as he plucks at the strings. Their sound is dull, a pale _plonk_ that reminds him of a cane clacking over debris. A cane striking like a sword, digging deep into the guts and gore of another enemy, fleshy and wet yes, crunching gristle and collapsing organs, but a distinctly metal noise when the tip careened off bone.

_Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!_

Water dripping in a cave, blood falling in an empty hall, echoing up and out and back.

_Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!_

A slow heart, slower, slower. The only noise in the absence of thought, a slow heart slowing, slower.

_Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!_

The seconds trickling by, sand in the hourglass of his life, falling-falling and a world in each one.

Vergil sits there, plucking the strings with wooden fingers, well into the night. Though he should keep reading, there are still some scripts to slog through and other projects he could keep working on.

He sits there until the world is dark and pinprick stars speckle the sky and he knows what he’ll do with the violin.

* * *

If he’s being honest—_and tries not to be_—it says as much as Vergil doesn’t that he knows where every creaky board and shuddering step is in Devil May Cry. He spent a sparse three months in his brother’s shop, _territory_, and learnt it like the back of his hand. When Vergil slips through the door with the key Dante never took back, he knows where to press against the frame to keep the thing silent.

When he stands, poised on the balls of his feet and listening to the sleeping shop, he knows where every sleepy snuffle and dreary sigh comes from. The wind that blows through the street and scrapes along the glass is the low hum in the back of his head. The roaches that Dante can’t manage to exterminate are the scratchy snuffling in the corner of his ear. The gentle creak of wood and dragging leg is V walking from Vergil’s library to the bedroom Dante gifted him.

Vergil hears it all, prickling and tickling at his ears, and he hates the relief that comes rushing in. Something clicks and unwinds and his tense set shoulders drop, his spine relaxes, and Vergil can breathe again.

He’s in Dante’s territory, shielded by a spell to hide his scent and power, but he’s still here. Upstairs V settles into the bed Dante bought him, sprawled out amongst the half dozen pillows, and Griffon perches on the stand Nero found. Shadow, the possessive, protective hellcat, does not settle with her master. Instead she goes prowling through the rooms, stopping at every door and listening, Vergil can hear her soft padding through the upper floor and her lingering presence outside Dante’s door.

He could wait for her to finish her check and return to her master, curl up in the crook of his elbow or settle against his shoulder, but the violin is heavy in his hand. Vergil should wait but he doesn’t. He’s throwing away Yamato’s saya again, flinging it away from himself so that some small part of her might survive.

—_Some small part of him will endure, untouched by Mundus and unbroken by this fight. Something for Dante to find if Dante ever makes it down into this festering pit Vergil’s found himself in. Dante will know what it means, Dante will know. Vergil hopes his little brother will remember him_—

Well no, he’s taking slow, measured steps across Devil May Cry’s wooden floor, avoiding every creaky plank, and stealing up the stairs. Shadow is grooming her face outside Dante’s door, red eyes in the dark, and Vergil could think she sees right through his spell. Cats have an affinity for these things and she’s no simple cat but Shadow still can’t see him.

She slips through Dante’s door, possibly to steal his socks, and Vergil ducks into the library he spent so much time cultivating.

Whatever he’s expecting, disorganized books, rearranged shelves, a pizza box in the corner, none of it’s there. When Vergil sets the sagging door back into its frame, he turns and sees; perfection. Everything is as he’s left it, the bookcases and their books, the nook and its soft pillows untouched but, a deep sniff, yes.

V has been in here, his scent soaked into the couch and laying thick over the wood, Dante too but less, his distinct hellfire singe isn’t heavy here. Vergil isn’t sure whether he’s glad or not, but he steps lightly and focuses on this one task. He keeps his fingers firm over the violin strings to quiet it and walks with purpose.

And it’s almost a let down when he makes it to the table with its stack of books without incident. The violin gets set down carefully, strings wound, bow clean, and then it’s just Vergil and the buzz of neon.

No dramatic splutter of sound from Dante’s room, no creak of the door and smoky voice from the doorway. No one notices him there, which is what the spell is for, and Vergil doesn’t know why that disappoints him. What did he expect? He’s been off—_hiding_—researching for the past two months with no contact, what’s different about tonight?

There’s no reason for Dante or V to think he would be here or for them to come confront him. The last time he was here, he’d attacked V to trigger Dante’s protective instincts, to make his brother see this new person as family too if his brother didn’t already. Vergil hadn’t accounted for Nero interrupting the faux fight, had wanted to go for longer just to be sure, but the interruption had suited him fine.

Dante was an open book but Nero was an open mic. He would spew his thoughts to the world and not give a damn who heard. Nero caring about V—_and Vergil_—had convinced the last sceptic bits of Dante, and Vergil had been free to leave with the threat of coming back of course. If Dante and Nero thought V was in danger they’d be more willing to let him into their lives, and they had, much further than even Vergil had anticipated.

And now what? Now…now Vergil doesn’t know.

He’s standing, alone, in the neon soft darkness and why? Why isn’t he leaving, what is he doing just standing here?

In Dante’s room, Shadow snuffles around, claws scraping the wood. In his room, V rolls over and Griffon’s breath whistles past his tri-part beak. The shop is as peaceful as a demon infested building can be and Vergil is one devil too many under its roof.

He should go, and he does.

Striding silently back across the room, down the stairs, and across the main room to the door. Yamato sits against his hip, bumping when he lifts the door out of the frame for a silent get away, and settles again when he’s out on the street. She understands why he didn’t use her for this, he could have cut straight into the library, but he didn’t.

Vergil had to visit. He had to see for himself, make sure his brother was as fine as his reconnaissance and information broker claimed. Knowing doesn’t make the manuscripts easier to read or the prickle of frustration any easier to bear but it settles something inside of him. Squeezes the tension out of his spine, burns it out of his muscles, and resets his body.

* * *

Nero’s family is sick; Kyrie, Nicoletta, and Julio are sick, and Vergil can’t find a single cure.

He’s ransacked his own library, slipping in at night under heavy silencing spells, and found nothing. He’s contacted every apothecary and witch’s store on the continent and found nothing. Beatrice even helped, found him human doctors to consult and the results have been the same everywhere: Nothing.

Vergil is ready to burn the world. He is ready to raise his own hellgate and go on a rampage through the netherworld to find the source of this scourge.

“Fuck’s sake **_Steve_**_!_ It’s a virus, a _human_ virus!” Beatrice hisses, eyes flashing inhuman when he growls under his breath, “You just gotta wait it out.”

Which is how…which is how he ends up laying on a rooftop a half mile away from Nero’s house with his binoculars once more. Hidden under a spell and an overhang, Vergil squints at Nero rushing through the house; the crack in the curtains is enough to peak through.

Kyrie, who threatened him, is pale under her fever, delirious with it and Nero is tense with worry for her. Nicoletta, the woman who was kind to V, is barely lucid, tossing and turning and scratching herself bloody. Nero curses when he finds the welts, wrestles her to the bed with his wings and fixes mittens to her hands with duct tape. And Julio, the eldest child, can barely roll himself to the edge of the bed to heave bitter bile into the bucket Nero leaves him.

The household smells of sick and Vergil grits his teeth on the urge to open Fortuna’s hellgate anew. The doctors said there was nothing that could be done, not for this type of illness. This was the kind to be suffered through, to be endured, but not killed by, what carrion comfort. And all the while Nero races from room to room, completing chores and soothing the sick of his house.

When he got there, halfway through the afternoon, Vergil didn’t know where the other children were; Kyle and Carlo. He’d checked the neighbour woman’s house, peering through her drapes and listening carefully for bilingual children's voices. Then he’d checked the other houses when the neighbour woman’s turned up empty.

Now, halfway through the night, Vergil knows the children are with V. Hears Nero murmur quietly about them with V over the phone across the half mile. Some of their words are too quiet, get lost in the empty space and ambient city noise, but Vergil hears enough. He hears about the name his…the name V has taken, and scoffs. Gilver wasn’t a _terrible_ name, better than Urizen poached from Blake.

V had named Vergil’s demon, Urizen wasn’t the name his demonic avatar had chosen, just the one V thought appropriate. Urizen was powerful, intimidating; it described a threat and a call for action, it was something to rally against. V was mysterious and possibly double crossing but it was ambiguous enough to trust too.

Vitale is…Vergil has no opinion on Vitale.

He does have an opinion on how completely his son falls asleep though. Nero drops off in the middle of a sentence, breathing slower and deeper between one word and the next, and leaving himself utterly vulnerable. Vergil blinks, then he frowns, and does a circuit of the house entrances he can see.

The front door is locked but the garage isn’t, not properly, anyone could pick that lock. The side door is closed but not locked and every single one of the windows is easily breakable. There’s even one on the second floor that’s open, curtain billowing carelessly, and Vergil breathes sharply.

There are no demons here, Nero keeps Fortuna clear of most of them, but what about human threats? If someone takes advantage of the sickness in the house to steal the valuable documents or complex devil breakers?

Vergil scowls then snarls as he pushes through his feet and makes his way to the house. Still blanketed in silence of course, same as every time he spied on Dante, and adds glamours as another problem to deal with. Dante could see through them if he tried, if he had a reason to focus, but Nero? Vergil doesn’t know if his son’s senses are as sharp or if he’s familiar enough with magic to know when it’s near.

When he’s dead asleep isn’t the best time to test senses but Vergil half hopes Nero will wake up anyway and catch him there. He almost _wants_ to be confronted for all the sneaking and spying he’s been doing over the past months, but he isn’t. Vergil makes it inside through the open window, contorting a spine more supple than any human’s to slip through the narrow crack.

Then, he creeps from room to room, checking the windows there. Nicoletta’s is open and she is tossing in bed, batting at her body with mittened hands, too preoccupied with the itch to notice the shadow on her floor. Vergil means to leave immediately but pauses by her door, watching her restless writhing in the dark, and remembering the kindness she showed him when he was a stranger.

There are no potions or spells to reverse the illness or cure it completely, but a puff of coolness seems to help her settle. Winter’s breath across her overheated skin, one of the only magics Eva ever taught him, it could barely be called a spell but it’s something.

Julio and Kyrie’s windows are locked but Vergil leaves a touch of winter in their rooms as well, something to soothe the smouldering itch. Perhaps a more sentimental person—_Dante_—would take their temperatures and wipe the sweat stuck hair away from their faces, but Vergil does not. He isn’t a sentimental person, and this may be Nero’s family, but they are still strangers to Vergil.

Strangers who do not trust him. Him being in their home during their illness is a betrayal of what little trust they may have and thus, it is crucial they never find out he was here.

Downstairs Nero sleeps soundly on, face pressed into the couch, phone pressed against his ear. V is still on the other end, reciting poetry from an author Vergil does not recognise but the soothing lilt is the more important thing.

“Silver was your armour. Silver the cross of your Lord.”

In the quiet of the house, between the gentle breaths, V-Vitale’s voice holds a magic of its own. If he were here—_Vergil wouldn’t be_—he would help Nero care for his sick family. V would prepare breakfast so Nero didn’t have to, V would watch over Julio and Nico so Nero could devote more attention to Kyrie. V would let Nero have a break, a proper one, instead of a few snatched hours.

V would do all of those things because he is _allowed_ to. Nero wants him, as family, Nico enjoys his company, Kyrie and the children do not see him as a threat because to them, V did not rip off Nero’s arm and leave him for dead. Vergil did that and they refuse to be okay with it. He doesn’t blame them, grudges are a healthy part of life, but they’re the reason Vergil can’t do any of the things V could.

“Silver the steel in your countenance. Silver the glint of your sword.”

All he can do is check the doors, ensure safety from a distance. Nero curled on the couch might hurt his back there but Vergil will not move him; he will not betray the safety of this house again. Instead, Vergil leaves a touch of cool in the living room and locks the back door on his way out.

Back to his silent vigil from half a mile away.

“Silver the bullet I bite.”

* * *

_“Time to finish this Vergil. Once and for all.”_

_“I won’t lose to the likes of you, little brother.”_

* * *

“Useless!”

A shove sends all those once valuable papers flying.

“Waste of time!”

And, because fluttering bits of paper aren’t satisfying, he kicks at the couch too.

“Bullshit!” he growls, snarls, spits through grit teeth, and flings a notebook.

It hits a blackened wall with a dull thud, spine cracking, plaster crumbling, and Vergil sneers at it. Sneers are all the useless manuscripts scattered around him.

Months decoding them, painstakingly translating dead Latin, Coptic, Sanskrit, for what?! None of them have answers, none of them are worth the parchment they were written on.

V, his attempt at giving his family some kind of protection, will stay a weak human with pathetic familiars and no power. V, his attempt at righting at least some of his wrongs, will be just another mistake in the long line of them his life has been.

He almost unsheathes Yamato to slice through the pages scattered across the broken floor but no, she deserves a better opponent than dead scripts. Vergil kicks at them instead, crumples them, tears some, sends them flying into the air again.

Dante thinks he’s here finding ways to send V back to the void of non-existence and learning where he came from in the first place. Vergil scoffs, snorts, and sits down heavily on the floor.

No. He wasn’t.

“Oh little brother, there’s still so much you don’t know,” he mutters, glaring at his own ink stained hands. He’d snapped a pen in his frustration and ink splurted across his fingers, dripped down his wrist, and now it’s dried into an ugly smear of black.

Still tacky when he rubs his fingers together, another thing to clean eventually. Like the loose pages and overturned couch.

What to do now? Return with another lie? Make something up about V’s return being a demonic boon, something gifted by the netherworld to its new King? Dante might believe it. He’s lived a life full of enough inane, demonic _nonsense_ to not question whatever new bullshit came his way.

Nero…Vergil, frankly, has no idea what Nero will think. The boy likes V, considers him family, a brother even, so he might accept Vergil’s implausible answer. Or he might rail against it, push and push and _demand_ until he has something that makes better sense. And Vergil is used to Dante’s brash needling but he never learnt to deal with self-righteous anger—no.

No, Nero’s anger has never been self-righteous. His son’s rage might be flashfire quick and lighting strike hot, easy to coax into a bonfire blaze, but it’s never been unearned. Nero’s life had been so different from his and Dante’s, a different sort of grief lived in his son and stoked that fury in his blood.

If Nero doesn’t accept Vergil’s non-answers, he might just force the issue until he gets better ones. Until he gets the truth, and Vergil doesn’t think he could handle the truth. Himself, not Nero.

That he…that he so desperately wanted to protect these ragged pieces of family that he’d created a golem from his own flesh to do what he couldn’t? Would Dante or Nero believe he hadn’t meant it to be V?

Maybe yes, maybe no, Vergil didn’t know, because he doesn’t know Dante and Nero as well as he’d like. He doesn’t know what it’s like to eat dinner with his brother sat at the same table making pleasant conversation. He doesn’t know what it’s like to go on a hunt with his son and not bicker about technique and appropriate kill methods.

Vergil doesn’t know how to exist peacefully with the people he cares about, but V does. V who he didn’t mean to recreate. V who is weak because Vergil doesn’t even know, the damned scripts couldn’t tell him what he’d done wrong. Why the familiars were ridiculous imitations or why V didn’t have a sliver of Vergil's own demon power.

All those useless scripts could say was what he’d done _right_. Vergil had done better than Mundus; V was the same as he'd been with the same memories and abilities and that was incredible. That V was human, if not entirely, was an even greater accomplishment, but Vergil hadn't wanted a human. He'd wanted an artificial _demon. _Mundus had made one, Mundus had made Trish from nothing; intent and demonic energy had created a demon powerful enough to fight alongside Dante, so why couldn't Vergil achieve the same?

Oh but what does it matter though? Dante and Nero care for V anyway, Vergil couldn’t take Vitale Gilver away from Devil May Cry no more than he could kill V that first morning. Nero wouldn’t let him, Dante wouldn’t, perhaps even Lady would consider it just one more thing to hate him for.

So, in a pitiful way, he did accomplish what he’d wanted. His family was pleased, happy even, and healthier if not safer. Vergil knows Dante eats food, real food that isn’t covered in cheese and grease. He knows Nero enjoys having a hunting partner for the more ridiculous hunts, and that the children adore their “_uncle_”.

But now what? No one has come looking for him but Vergil knows Dante expects him to come back eventually. They made a promise down in the depths of Hell, to each other, and Vergil will honour it. One last visit to the shop before he goes his separate way, one last official visit. To explain how he couldn’t find anything and thinks it’s time he found something to do that didn’t involve useless research.

Dante would be glad to hear it, maybe ask for monthly phone calls to make sure Vergil wasn’t off opening hellgates and seeking power again. Nero would be angry, maybe, but he would appreciate the space to grow into himself, Vergil thinks. He still doesn’t know.

For now, he wants caffeine, something with enough kick to jitter his bones and drown his brain. Judging by the swirl of stars and dip of the moon though, Bea Sweet doesn’t open for another five hours and he could simply break in but he had no idea where Beatrice kept the good grounds. He thinks she moves them every night to prevent exactly this.

Well then wh—

Yamato is in hand before his brain parses the guttering roar. Her saya smooth and cool against his palm, ready to be drawn, before Vergil understands what the sound is. He’s only heard it a few dozen times but not recently.

Cavaliere is an announcement, a warning. Dante knows that and he wouldn’t have come looking here of all places with Cavaliere of all things if it wasn’t meant to notify Vergil of his imminent arrival. Dante is giving him a chance to leave, to keep up this careful game of keep-away Vergil’s been playing.

Sometimes he forgets how insightful his brother can be, the things Dante _does_ understand. Vergil watches Venus wheel above his head as he considers, lays Yamato across his lap. Cavaliere is fast but Vergil is faster, he could be gone before Dante gets close enough to spot him sat in the rubble of their home.

He could even shuffle all the scattered papers into a pile and take them with him, leave Dante nothing to find but an overturned couch. If he acts now, he could take the couch.

Vergil doesn’t move a muscle. Cavaliere revs, engine growling as Dante puts on a burst of speed, hopping the half fallen down fence, and wheels bite into the dead dirt. How long has Dante been looking for him? Since he left the violin in the library? Since V watched the children and Vergil broke into Nero’s house? Before that?

He supposes he might get an answer soon, if he asks, because Cavaliere cuts, disappearing into the pocket dimension of Dante’s creation. Then there’s only the sound of Dante’s quiet footsteps through the broken house; through the main room then the family, down the hall, closer-closer and…

“Had a feeling I might find you here,” Dante says, full of as much forced cheer as ever, and Vergil says nothing, as ever.

“Kid’s been asking about you, figured I could take a look around, for him,” is the excuse? Well, Vergil was half expecting Dante to blame V, using Nero is a pleasant surprise all things considered.

Dante doesn’t say anything about the scattered pages, though Vergil can tell he’s looking at them, eyes roving over the unfamiliar words in unfamiliar hands. How long would it take Dante to read all of these? Vergil couldn't guess but his brother did have a grasp of Latin so why _not_ Coptic and Sanskrit too?

“See you’ve been keeping busy.”

And Dante sets the couch upright instead of asking what any of it’s about. Then there’s the sound of leather on leather, Dante’s pants rubbing uncomfortably against the upholstery. Vergil doesn’t make a move to sit next to him but he does lean back until his back rests on the couch and his posture isn’t as stiff.

There’s so much he could say, so much he would like to explain, but as always, words fail him. When they matter, words always fail him. And, for once, they seem to fail Dante too.

His bold and boisterous little brother has nothing to say or ask or interject, and Vergil isn’t quite sure how to handle this silence. Whilst in Hell they spoke, even if it was to call out their kills and see who was winning their competition. Sometimes Vergil explained a level of Hell, the history of it or the reason certain demons had adapted to it.

Sometimes Dante told tales of his devil hunting, simple anecdotes greatly exaggerated for entertainment purposes. Or the reverse, grand accomplishments condensed into a paragraph or two because Dante didn’t consider them noteworthy. The defeat of Argosax? Trivial, just another Tuesday. The destruction of the Order and restoration of their father’s name? Nothing really, just a job.

Getting to mock a stuttering scientist and act like a Shakespearean actor who might’ve been booed off the stage in five minutes and attacked by castmates in two? That warranted an hour-long description with every angle painstakingly recreated.

But now? After two months of silent observation—_on Vergil’s part_—and no contact—o_n Dante’s_—there’s nothing. Dante stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankle, and Vergil thinks about biting him, just to get a reaction. Letting his teeth grow and sharpen, become too big for this human mouth, and biting his brother’s calf.

Would that bring the words? Or would he get kicked in the face? Possibly both?

“You did this, didn’t you Vergil?” Dante asks, creaking against the couch, leaning forward? Backward? Vergil can’t see from his angle.

“Yes…he was supposed to be like Trish but made to protect,” Vergil answers, tipping his head back until he _can_ see. Dante leant back, arms crossed behind his head and eyes on the sky. Vergil appreciates that, the casual acknowledgement in his posture, he prefers it to facial expression and eye contact.

It’s easier to understand posture than it is to understand a crooked smile or hollow words. And it’s easier to speak when he doesn’t have to waste time interpreting the reaction to his words.

“I know, he found it in one of your books. I asked if he knew anything about retiling bathrooms and he went looking in that library of yours.”

And he…oh. Hadn’t he—no apparently not. If V, the only he Dante could mean, found the sigil in a book then Vergil _hadn’t_ moved it.

“Finding anything on it was hard, old magic or whatever, but he figured it out. You’d like him Verge, if you just gave him a chance,” Dante says, whines more like, and he feels his lips twitching into a smile. Little brother might know some things but not all of them, Vergil still has the upper hand here.

Though this isn’t a fight, was never meant to be one, Vergil likes having the upper hand. He likes the control.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Dante,” he murmurs, and grins when Dante opens his mouth to argue, “I already do.”

And that snaps Dante’s mouth shut much quicker than any of their other fights. Makes him frown and scrunch his nose like Vergil remembers from their childhood. He’s seen that expression on Nero’s face too, the bald-faced confusion that neither of them care enough to hide. There was a reason he’d thought Nero was Dante’s misbegotten by-blow.

“I didn’t fight you for his life, little brother, I wanted you to like him as well. He was meant to make amends for my…because of…” and words fail him, again. He huffs, clenches his hands in his lap, and glares at the stars. The distant, uncaring stars.

Above him, Dante cocks his head, too long hair falling pale against his face. Vergil knows what it looks like streaked with blood, clumped and matted to his brother’s head. He knows what it looks like slicked with rain and stuck to his brother’s flushed face, resting on the curve of a cheek stretched in a desperate snarl.

The hand that drops next to his head, resting on the couch, Vergil knows it well too. He’s had those fingers digging into his throat and that palm smeared with his blood, smeared with Dante’s own blood too. It’s the one Vergil cut after all.

“I’m not gonna lie Verge, you’ve done some messed up shit over the years, but this has gotta be the stupidest stunt you’ve _ever_ pulled,” Dante scoffs, hand creeping closer, almost enough to touch. Vergil considers cutting it again, slicing out with Yamato and disappearing again. It would be easier. It’s always easier to deal with Dante when he’s a far away concept instead of a flesh and blood creature.

Vergil bets Dante even expects it, might pull Cerberus or Vendetta to meet the blow, or dodge it entirely. They could have another fight in the gutted bones of their childhood, it’s what they expect from each other, but that would be a mistake. Another mistake in a lifetime full of them.

“And why is that?”

He refuses to take the bait, refuses to fight again, he won’t make this mistake again.

“You’re trying to replace yourself with V, but you don’t get it, I didn’t head down into Hell with V and the kid didn’t beat the shit out of _V_, that was you Vergil. We care about _you_ and all your prissy, arrogant, ‘_I need more Power!_’ bullshit,” Dante snaps and…and what?

He opens his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what, but Dante cuts him off.

“Nuh uh, my turn to talk big brother and maybe you’ll actually listen cause V’s not the one Nero wants to know. I mean yeah sure, the kid’s having a ball with his new brother but V’s not a replacement for you, the father he never knew he had. And maybe that’s on me too for never telling him but I thought you were dead, alright? I thought you were gone and what’d be the point telling the kid about a dad he’d never have, but you’re back.”

And Dante slips off the couch to sit on the floor, next to Vergil.

“You’re back and we’ve got a chance to—to I don’t know, figure out this whole family thing. Nero’s your kid and there’s a lot of you in him but there’s a lotta him too, and he’s way nicer than either of us, and that big heart of his is gonna get him in trouble eventually but that’s fine cause he’s got us to bail him out. Or maybe he’ll bail _us_ out, who knows, can’t see the future yet Verge.”

Then Dante’s right there, sitting pressed against him, thigh-to-hip-to-chest, breathing right next to him. They could be in Hell again, two apex predators huddled close for safety, each other’s and their own. There hadn’t been words in Hell, there was no need for them, and things had been so much easier.

Dante had sat like this, with him, in Hell. They’d hugged like they hadn’t since they were children, they’d lounged on each other, and _played_ together. But then they came back to the human world and there was a barrier again, expectations, unaccountable variables; Vergil hadn’t known how to bridge that gap again.

“But I know damn sure you’re gonna be in it, whether you like it or not, cause I didn’t climb a stupid upside-down tree or drag my ass through Hell just so you could come brood out here and worry the kid. If you want space then yeah, we’ll give ya space, but a phone call would be nice, visits too. You could even stop paying the delivery guy to spy on me and be part of my exorcisms.”

Dante takes his hand, lacing their fingers together, and Dante lounges against him, like a contented cat. Vergil remembers Shadow dropping her weight against him just like this, languid and careless, soothing the ache in his bones with her warmth. There’s no ache anymore, not in this body, but Dante’s weight is soothing still.

“I never paid Robert to spy on you, I paid him to keep an eye on the shop,” the distinction is important, “and I refuse to involve myself in your exorcisms, _Tony_.”

They’re both grinning now though, flashes of teeth in the dark of the night.

“Aw c’mon Verge, it’d be fun, we could have a duo routine,” Dante laughs, tucking his face against Vergil’s shoulder.

“Absolutely not, I have better things to do with my time than take part in ridiculous money-making schemes,” he sniggers, resting his cheek on his brother’s head.

There is… a lot they won’t say, possibly cannot yet, but this is a start. This is warmth in his chest, burning him from the inside out in the most pleasant way. The scar on Dante’s palm is slim, smooth after so many years, but it’s there and Vergil isn’t sure what he feels about that. There’s nothing on this new body of his, reconstituted after his split, and Vergil doesn’t know if he should feel something for that.

Maybe he should, maybe he won’t, like Dante said, they couldn’t see the future yet, but they would have each other in it.

“Like looking into people’s houses with a pair of binoculars?”

“Yes exactly, Dante.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....this chapter is long, congrats on making it to the end. Y'all are super stars, now go get a drink of water and stretch. There's just one last chapter, a tiny thing compared to all the rest but I felt like we needed a more family-oriented end so I'll save my sap for there. 
> 
> The poem V quotes is "Meditation on Yellow" by Olive Senior which is my favourite poem and fit so good. The idea of Dante's exorcisms came from super-productivity's text post over on tumblr, used with permission. 
> 
> Here's a translation of what Dante and V were saying in Latin. 
> 
> Exorcist: Begone!  
D: Give me a meat lovers supreme with extra cheese.  
D: Don’t forget the drink!  
V: We only offer drinks with family deals.  
D: Oh man really? How much for the drink then?  
V: Does it matter? Save your money with the deal.  
V: And you will be satisfied, Son of Sparda.  
V: Release your form and return Antonio Redgrave!  
D: Alright


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We deserve a soft epilogue my love but we work at Devil May Cry and everything's an ordeal around here.

“Devil May Cry, how may I help you?”

V isn’t sure how exactly Dante convinced Vergil to come back after his fruitless search, but he doesn’t think he needs to know. He also isn’t sure how Vergil convinced Dante to let him run customer interference, but V is sure he doesn’t _want_ to know.

He’s quite content to lounge on the couch with Shadow in his lap and a pile of Dante’s socks at his feet. There’s quite a few of them, more than V thought Dante even owned, and every time the half-devil in question attempts to reclaim them, Shadow turns into a ball of spitting fury. She’s yet to swipe at him but Dante has yet to push her that far, they’re both impatiently waiting and their game has run for a solid week. Dante's taken to wearing his boots without socks and V's taken to leaving them in the pokey little cupbaord under the stairs to limit the stench. 

“Sorry, our hunter registry needs updating, Lady and Trish are currently unavailable,” Vergil explains, tapping his fingers on the desk in a measured rhythm. V can feel it in his own fingers, the soft tap-tap-tap, and focuses it on Shadow’s lazy belly. She can sprawl across his thighs now, a medium sized housecat with great potential to get bigger.

Griffon snorts on his perch, six pupils rolling, he prefers to say she’s getting fat off all the food she’s been stealing. All until Shadow attacks him or Nero beans him with something soft and squashy. Then he retreats to V's shoulder, complaining and muttering about getting bullied until someone coaxes him out with food or an easy set up.

“No madam, we don’t—Miss? What does—,” Vergil cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose, and nodding to no one, “No _Miss_, we do not offer refunds on services rendered.”

V turns a laugh into a cough and focuses on the words of his book. Another new one, another from Vergil’s library. This one touts the wonders of crystal healing and new-age nonsense written by “_Wiccans_” who don’t believe in demons. Nearly all of their information is dead wrong but it’s a good bit of entertainment and reminder of what not to do when handling crystals.

Very few of them care about healing.

“We are a demon hunting service, we provide demon extermination and exorcisms, which would you like to make an appointment for?”

Every word is deliberate and poised on rage’s edge. V turns a page and smirks at the description of a purification ritual, there’s no such thing.

“Mad-_Miss_, please explain why exactly you are calling.”

The ritual is rather good for purifying but for houses instead. He should make a note of it for the next call they get to exorcise a location, this one should work nicely for single rooms with the beginnings of a demonic infestation. Only lesser scourge obviously.

He folds down the edge of the page and scratches under Shadow’s chin. Nero should be there soon, traffic allowing, and Dante would be back from his hunt in an hour. For once they would be going out for dinner, at a pizza place of course, but it was quite the occasion. No one would say it but it _was_ to celebrate Vergil’s awkward return.

V hadn't been in when the twins got back, Nero and Nico had taken him to a gun show, determined to instil a sense of awe in him for the destructive power of a semi-automatic. Well, Nico was, Nero was more interested in getting him any kind of gun at all because his cane was good but a gun was better. When they'd gotten back from that, all three of them, Vergil had been perched on Dante's desk while Dante played with devil arms.

Nero had taken one look and walked back out, Nico had rushed forward to take a look at the Lucifer, and V had quietly moved to stand by Vergil. They'd watched each other then, looked at each others faces and for all the differences between them. There was plenty they could have said then, so many words they could have sharpened into weapons and gone to war with, but they hadn't. 

Vergil had inclined his head and V had cocked his brow, and they'd both sat on the desk while Dante dragged out more devil arms to show off with. Now, Vergil is sat at the desk, wrestling with customer service, and V smriks behind his book.

“We can’t help you! We provide demonic extermination! Allow me to describe demons to you; sinful creatures intent on nothing but destruction and their own self-satisfaction, does that sound familiar?” Vergil’s snarling now, fingers gouging into the wood, and Griffon rolls his eyes. The famous Sparda anger, nearly as legendary as the Dark Knight himself.

“We don’t _have_ a manager! Never call this number again,” Vergil hisses and rips the cord out of the phone. V half expects to see the thing flying through the air and into a wall but it doesn't. Instead Vergil gets to his feet and stalks off into the kitchen, leaving the phone silent in his wake. 

Dante will ask later, to be annoying, and Vergil will say something acerbic, and the two will get into another petty argument. Nero might break it up, or he might join in, and V...V turns another page. Maybe he will sit by and watch the pettiness unfold, or maybe he'll slide into it, find a place between the nasty little barbs where none of it can touch him. He's not sure but he supposes he'll know when the time comes, because it will and he'll be there. 

He's welcome there and so is Vergil.

"Not a word," Vergil growls, taking a pointed seat next to him on the couch and handing him a can of Dr Pepper. No one is supposed to drink them, they're Dante's, but Vergil doesn't care and stares until V takes it. Then, he buries his hand in Shadow's fur, stroking her ears and her paws and her purring belly, and takes the world's sharpest sip from his own can of Dante's soda.

In an hour or two, all hell might break loose again. Dante shouting at Vergil, Vergil shouting at Dante, and Nero caught in the middle, they might miss their special pizza dinner or wait until they're back home to start a fight, V doesn't know. But he's all too excited to find out and to find his place in it.

"Of course not," V hums, focusing on his book again and watching Vergil relax as Shadow purrs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap folks! Thank you all so much for sticking with me to the very end. I can't believe how far we came from me just wanted V back to a break down of Dante, Nero, and Vergil to boot. Definitely a ride but a good one. I wanna thank everyone in the Devil May Cry Thirst server, specifically Adri and Ren for sharing the V love. I also wanna thank Ariebearz for the fanart and support. This definitely wouldn't have finished without all of them. 
> 
> Now, there might be more in this weird lil Universe Altered, specifically from the gals but that'd be a ways off. In the meantime, hmu on twitter (Darke_Eco_Freak) or tumblr (darkeecofreak) if y'all are interested in more dmc talk. I somehow know about the entire franchise now and the reboot. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope y'all liked it.


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